


That Which You Seek (is Seeking You)

by firstorder_scum, WarAndPoetry



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Daro is an asshole but like at least he's hot i guess?, Depression, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Force Visions, Friends to Enemies, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Maiming, Manipulation, Mental Breakdown, Mutilation, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Original Male Character(s) - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Pining, Snoke can fuck right off as far as the authors are concerned, Torture, Veréne needs a hug, Whump, force illusions, force manipulation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:40:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24761728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstorder_scum/pseuds/firstorder_scum, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarAndPoetry/pseuds/WarAndPoetry
Summary: Veréne Aro, as brilliant as a streak of lightning, seeks her true place within the will of the Force. Bold and brave, daring and determined, yet haunted by her own mind and her past. Iscah Iura, as deep as the sea, seeks the ability to protect and care for those she loves. Loyal and loving, smart and stubborn, but plagued by her own self-doubt and losses.Once upon a time they were childhood friends, inseparable against all odds and obstacles, until they are ripped apart by a growing Darkness. But although they are separated by years and experiences, by loss and heartbreak, by betrayal and bloodshed, the strength of their Bond endures. That Bond, tested and shattered and reforged, will bring them closer to that which they both seek.But every search has an end and every choice has its cost.A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...
Relationships: Daro Tane/Veréne Aro | Aetra Khal, Iscah Iura/Veréne Aro | Aetra Khal, Original Female Character(s)/Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 6





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> After six months of planning, writing, and wrestling with timelines, here it is! Our baby! Written by two friends with a passion for angst, angst, and MORE ANGST! And lightsabers. Can't forget those lightsabers.
> 
> This started out as a joke about Star Wars OCs, and then it became a multi-chapter monster...
> 
> Since what we have at the moment is massive, we'll be adding tags as we go! We'll try to post them in the individual chapter notes as well, but do make sure to check for tag updates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because we are complete and total nerds, we have of course made some Spotify playlists for inspiration. What started as one turned into... a lot. Like, a playlist per chapter and for each character and also different vibes/settings... We MAY have overdone it, but hey! Who cares? And you, lovely readers, get the option to listen to our chapter playlists as you read along! We hope you enjoy them, and we hope you enjoy our story! <3
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4LNFP2srHQcdAmneSS7Uvq?si=hzYBXAJeScC1YBYKx_vL1Q

**25 ABY**

_a woman sits on her bed, staring at her knees. her arms are raised above her head, something dangles between her fingers: a leather cord, with a bright yellow kyber crystal, hangs in the stillness. the woman seems pained; her eyes are closed, eyebrows knit tightly together…_

Iscah…

_another woman, with an equally bright, blue kyber crystal around her neck, sits in the cockpit of a rusted space craft; one that mads had smuggled off the jenko space-dump, no doubt. all of the galaxy lays before her, but her eyes are far, far away. she is thinking of one she has lost, one whom she hopes is still alive, out there waiting for her…_

Veréne…

_the woman on the bed suddenly opens her crimson eyes, a small grin stretches across her pale face. she gets up and saunters to her window, still clutching the necklace between her fingers. large destroyers lay before her; they are waiting for her command, waiting for the wave of her hand to tell them where to go. and now she knows exactly where she needs to go._

I will find you…

_the woman named iscah blinks once. for just a moment she thinks she feels something… something of an old force bond, long shrouded and veiled against her, reaching out to her across the galaxy. it feels… ominous, full of evil intent. but that is absurd, of course. iscah uneasily puts the cold, hateful feeling out of her mind. all that matters is iscah’s search for her friend. veréne is alive and she will find her._

…or I will die trying.


	2. Never One Without the Other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it really begins... Let's all say a prayer for our leading ladies. They're gonna need it. Also, let's say a prayer for our authors as well. We're gonna need it because we decided writing this behemoth of a story out was a good idea.
> 
> See end of chapter notes for chapter-specific tags/warnings!
> 
> Here's the playlist link for this chapter, if you want some cool tunes to listen to while you read and/or are curious what vibes influenced the authors while writing!  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1C4ADFD6N6xMT3Oe29FNQ5?si=3U-EDTbKT4qUTueP1aAHJQ

**23 ABY**

The cave breathed with an electric intensity. Veréne could feel the Force cling to the air, but it seemed distorted, as if she were looking through shattered mirror fragments.

She reached out a tentative hand and closed her eyes. The Force throbbed against her veins, leaving a faded heartbeat against her skin. She shivered; never had she felt the Force fragmented before. Always it felt like a comforting friend waiting on the sidelines. But now it was a dark stranger looming behind her.

It beckoned darkly to her.

The Call had initially brought Veréne inside the darkness. It whispered her name, a dark and muffled tug in the Force. Meters away stood Iscah, patrolling the inner sanctum of the old Temple. They landed their ship amidst dense jungle and a tangle of vines to uncover a long-lost Jedi Temple, dating back hundreds, if not thousands, of years. The isolation was evident: the once strong structures lay scattered in pieces on the leave-covered floor; dust covered almost every surface, coating the stone in a thick grey blanket. No living being had been here in a very, very long time. 

So when the Force called to Veréne, it almost made her scream out loud with surprise. It came from a dark fissure down a forgotten hallway. She practically fell through the fissure as she followed it along, if not were it for the sudden surge of Force energy she felt emanate from the hole below.

“Iscah, I’m going to check this out. Don’t wait up for me,” she called out to her friend, trying to buoy her own spirits by injecting playfulness into her voice. She could still see Iscah standing a distance away, gold hair lit up from the dim lighting of the entry hall she had been exploring.

“Wait, you can’t just- _Ugh_!” Veréne could _feel_ the other woman’s irritation and got the distinct impression that she’d touched something she would’ve rather not touched. “Fine, fine. Just be careful!” shouted her friend, back bent as she rummaged through the ruins. “Matter of fact, keep our Force Bond loud and clear, would you? I don’t trust you not to get yourself killed doing something stupid.”

Iscah’s concern, a constant thing in their relationship, made Veréne roll her eyes. Her friend wouldn’t be able to see it, but if the cold splash of Iscah’s thoughts against hers was any indicator, she’d felt it.

“You know me: I’m _always_ careful.”

Veréne could hear Iscah’s sarcastic, disbelieving huff as she dropped into the fissure, the darkness swallowing her whole.

As she dropped, she immediately recognized her decision as a mistake; she seemed to fall for at least thirty seconds until she saw what looked like water below her. She braced her legs for the impact, but instead cried out in pain when they met stone.

“For fuck’s sake!” she cried, rubbing her right ankle. Reaching out with the Force, she felt a small hairline fracture in her bone and cursed her stupidity for jumping into the hole in the first place. As she looked up, however, the opening seemed to be nine meters from where she lay. _Weird,_ she thought _, it felt as if I dropped at least twenty meters._

Veréne carefully stood upright, her ankle smarting. She took in her surroundings and noticed the cave bathed in a golden light. But the only opening was the one above her, which remained completely dark.

“Where am I…?”

As if answering her, the Force sent an electric current through the air. Veréne shivered, despite the suffocating warmth of the cave. Suddenly she felt _wrong,_ as if something dreadful were about to happen. Then, the golden light shimmered all about her. The floor began to spin; or, at least, that’s what Veréne thought happened. It swirled and stars appeared, mixing with the translucent black stone. Suddenly a dreadful feeling rose within her stomach, bringing her to her knees. It felt as if Malevolence itself gripped her body, making her sick. But as suddenly as the strange event occurred, it stopped. The golden light shimmered once more, then disappeared, plunging the cave into darkness.

Worry crept up Veréne’s spine. She thought of Iscah, and if this strange occurrence had affected her topside; Veréne had no idea what in the Force this was, but she knew for sure it wasn’t here to make friends.

There was a deep cold that settled within her bones. She looked down; the rock she stood on was comprised of burning stars. The sight unsettled her each ball of flame hanging in the black abyss reminded her how alone, how truly _alone,_ she was in the galaxy. She reached out with the Force once more, trying to find solace and comfort.

All she found was death and rage and despair.

Quickly, as if burned by fire, Veréne pulled her hand away. Disbelief racked the tendrils that connected her to the Force. The Bonds she had forged over the years wavered, rocked by a swift and vengeful anger felt only once in her life. Rarely had Veréne ever felt true terror, and her connection with the Force had always been a source of stability and recovery from her past. Now her hope splintered; but s _he_ had to still be there, she was always there.

_Iscah…_

Their Force Bond wasn’t there; there was only emptiness and burning flame, raw to the touch.

The anger she found in the Force was unlike anything she had ever encountered before. Nothing came close, except that nagging memory from when she was a child…

_Veréne._

“Hello?” Someone called her using the Force, but it wasn’t Iscah. She brought out her lightsaber, the one comfort she had left, sighing with relief as soft yellow light covered her hands and feet. She held it aloft, trying to illuminate the cave. But the darkness blanketed the very air she breathed.

_Veréne._

“Show yourself!”

Emptiness swallowed her words, and the overwhelming sense of loneliness choked whatever connection she had left with the Force. She fell, hot tears salting her lips. Her lightsaber dropped from her slacking grip and rolled over the starry floor; the yellow light faded, and the darkness consumed her.

_Darkness reveals the truth._

“What do you want,” came her weak voice.

Suddenly the golden light returned, but it wasn’t the same shimmering light as before. It came from where her lightsaber lay, just out of reach. It had ignited out of its own accord, the yellow hue filling the entirety of the cave.

Confused, Veréne stood up, walking towards her ignited lightsaber. She stared at it but dared not pick it up. Whatever had turned it on was something Veréne had never encountered before; something her teachings rom Master Cal and research of the Jedi texts had never mentioned.

“Who are you?” she commanded, hoping something would happen.

A soft murmur rippled through the air, like gnarled branches whispering in the wind.

_End it._

Electric current ran through her veins. “What are you talking about?”

_Veréne._

She whipped around: the voice had been right in her ear.

A figure, outlined in the lightsaber’s yellow glow, stood where emptiness was a moment before. It had appeared from nowhere, and yet Veréne knew it had been there all along, just waiting. She inched closer, wincing as her ankle protested even the small movement. Reaching down without taking her eyes off the figure, Veréne grabbed her lightsaber. As she slowly stood up, the figure ignited their lightsaber, casting a crimson glow in the darkness.

“A Sith…’ Veréne hissed. Sith were supposed to be extinct, the last one dying a few years before she was born. _For Force’s sake, what’s happening?_

As she stared, Veréne recognized the figure bathed in crimson glow and let out a curse even Master Cal would be proud of.

Standing in front of Veréne was a dark, fragmented version of herself. This Veréne did not have auburn hair but silver tendrils that flowed in an invisible wind. An angry scar lay claim to her throat and marred her deathly white skin. Most jarring of all, however, were her eyes. They glowed the color of a dying star, mirroring the crimson lightsaber in her grasp.

Crimson was _everywhere_.

“But you’re…you cannot be…” She noticed he figure mouthed the same words and moved her lightsaber in the same forward motion as Veréne did.

A sickening wave flowed over Veréne’s body; she looked down at her yellow lightsaber except that it was no longer yellow, but crimson. She quickly looked back at the figure but it, or _she_ , was gone. Her hand, now shaking, reached for her throat. A thick line of scar tissue ran from her left ear to her esophagus.

_End it._

Veréne heard herself let out a deep and guttural howl. Taking her lightsaber, she plunged it into the rock between her legs. Red flames engulfed her legs, igniting the stars that scattered on the floor. The ground beneath her shook, splitting from angry red chasms.

Out of nowhere, red lightning erupted from the cracks and surrounded Veréne in a whirlwind of crimson static energy. One enormous bolt tore through the ground and forced its way through her feet out of her head. She screamed, but not from pain.

Rage boiled within the core of her Force connection. Flashes of her past crept into her vision, turning her Force-Bonds into bleeding wounds.

And as abruptly as the lightning stormed, it vanished. She fell to the ground, the Force ripped from her body.

Darkness began clouding her vision, and a cacophony of voices filled her mind: Master Cal, a stormtrooper general, Iscah, a gravelly deep voice she didn’t recognize, and one that spoke directly to her that sounded eerily familiar:

_I’m coming for you, Veréne Aro._

Then she closed her eyes, letting the darkness swallow her.

* * *

Golden light danced softly against her eyelids.

Veréne shot forward and let out a howl. But there was no more red lightning, no more silver-haired Sith with her own voice calling out to her…

She looked around the cave: darkness no longer clung to the air, and the floor beneath was natural, unremarkable stone.

A familiar voice from above called out to her. “Veréne! Is everything okay?”

Veréne recognized the blonde head and almost cried from relief. “Iscah… thank the Force it’s you.”

“Who else would it be, idiot?”

“I—no one, I just fell and, my ankle…”

“Thought I heard a cry of despair.” The words were meant to tease, but Veréne could hear the worry in her friend’s voice. “Just hold on, let me get some rope,” said Iscah, shaking her head at her friend’s aptitude for thrusting herself full throttle into danger.

That was often the way of things with them. Veréne, running off to conquer whatever the next adventure was and Iscah chasing after her in exasperated anxiety.

Rope fell from the fissure from above, and Veréne gripped tightly as Iscah pulled from above.

“You know, this would be a lot easier with some additional Force help,” grunted Iscah through gritted teeth.

Veréne couldn’t tell her that the Force had been banished from her body, and that she was useless. Although her Bonds remained, she couldn’t lift or push or even raise a pebble if she tried. Instead, she used all the remaining strength she had left to inch herself up the rope.

When she reached the surface, Iscah gripped her arm and pulled her over the edge. Her grip didn’t weaken as she pulled Veréne against herself, wrapping both arms around her, and pulled them both back and away from the edge of the fissure. They fell to the ground together, and Veréne was fleetingly comforted by the familiar sound of Iscah’s heartbeat. Breathless and sweaty, both Jedi sat there for a long moment, staring at one another.

“Veréne… What’s wrong? I could tell you weren’t using the Force.”

Veréne automatically opened her mouth to reassure her, but was met with the signature Iscah Stare.

“Don’t lie to me.”

Veréne looked away from the heavy blue eyes to gaze at her ankle. She hesitated before trying to reach out with the Force to heal herself.

Instead, she found emptiness.

How could she tell her friend that lightning had surged through her body, that she had seen a dark version of herself, that the Force had somehow been ripped from her?

“I fell and was knocked out. I’m not sure why but I can’t use the Force right now.” Veréne said, looking away.

Iscah narrowed her eyes at her friend, easily detecting she was telling only part of the truth. Veréne was stubborn, and when Iscah usually tried to pry she was met with a resolute defiance followed by a wall Veréne had constructed since they were on Oatune together.

She had learned that her friend would confide in her with time, and Veréne was grateful when she saw the sagging of shoulders that signaled Iscah’s backing down.

“Look, if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine.” Iscah stood up and reached her hand out to Veréne. “But at least come up with a better lie than that next time. You literally just jumped down there about a minute ago. I was about to follow after you, if you could’ve just waited another kriffing moment,” she griped, pulling Veréne up and wrapping an arm around her waist to keep her steady.

Veréne allowed Iscah to pull her up without a second thought, but felt as though the floor had given out beneath them. “A minute ago…? Are you sure?” The words were filled with shock, and Veréne could feel Iscah’s confused concern settle on her again.

“Force, you must’ve knocked your head hard. You told me you’d be _careful_ ,” Iscah took a moment to cough pointedly, then continued, “and I turned around for a moment when suddenly I heard you cry out. That’s when I rushed over.”

Veréne could only stare. The cave had not only warped her connection with the Force, but it somehow distorted _time_.

She replied with that faraway look in her eyes once more, “You’re right. I did hit my head hard. Let’s just… get back to ship.”

The two Jedi made it onto the ship’s ramp, one supporting the other, when Veréne felt that same Call within the Force. Startled, she turned around and looked back at the Temple, nearly toppling both her and Iscah. She ignored her friend’s startled protests, scanning the Temple for something, _anything_.

Nothing moved; in fact, there was an unsettling silence that descended on the ancient stone as they stood ready to get on their ship and fly away.

“You coming?” came Iscah’s voice, snapping Veréne out of her trance. But as she faced her friend, it was all she could do to not break down sobbing.

Iscah looked as though she had just fought the battle of her life: cuts from her arms and legs oozed, staining her Jedi robes crimson. There was a gaping hole in her abdomen, the flesh around it singed and bleeding from what could only be a lightsaber. The most horrific sight, though, was seeing her friend with her entire right arm missing. Bone and muscle dangled from the wound at her shoulder, and charred flesh filled Veréne’s nose. Iscah’s mouth was moving soundlessly, her face pale from the loss of blood.

“No…” breathed Veréne, reaching through her last connection to the Force—their Bond—to her dying friend.

“Are you saying you _want_ to stay here?” asked Iscah. She was once again herself: no missing arm or hole through her body.

The tears spilled from Veréne’s eyes as she stared in disbelief at her completely intact friend. She reached out, grasping Iscah’s right arm to prove to herself that it was actually there. Iscah hissed in displeasure as Veréne gripped her too hard, but she hardly noticed. Once she was satisfied the arm was whole, she reached out to touch her friend’s torso, to feel the flesh and ribs that were undamaged and intact.

Iscah made another sound, this one concerned, and caught Veréne’s shaking hand in her own. “Veréne, _please_.” She took in Veréne’s tears, and fear entered her eyes. She reached up—and though her right hand was still whole, Veréne flinched—and tried to wipe away the tears that had mingled with the dust from their explorations. “You’ve _got_ to tell me what’s wrong. You’re starting to really scare me.”

When Veréne did not answer after a moment, Iscah sighed and grabbed at her, pulling her friend as gently as urgency would allow onto the ship. She strapped Veréne into the cockpit and took the pilot’s chair without a word, shooting her friend worried looks all the while. As their Corellian freighter rose into the air, Veréne doubled over and grabbed her stomach as though sick.

“Shit,” Iscah swore, rushing through their takeoff procedures in record time. “Hang on, okay? I don’t know what’s going on, but just stay with me here.”

Something about those words made the tears come faster.

“I’m going to kill you, you know that right?” Iscah muttered as she set coordinates for Iulia, taking over both the pilot and copilot duties without further comment. The words contained multitudes of affection, and an almost equal amount of unease.

Finally, Veréne spoke, her voice gravelly and her eyes swollen from crying. “We need to leave. Now.”

Iscah stopped mid button-punching and rounded on her friend. “Enough is _enough,_ Veréne. Tell me what the fuck is going on—”

A loud _pop_ in the atmosphere caused both women to stare out into the blue sky. Sitting directly in their line of departure was an enormous Destroyer battleship. Iscah’s face suddenly fell, her mouth hanging open. “How did you know…”

The destroyer was not New Republic; this planet was outside of their jurisdiction. Something about it was foreboding, and it didn’t take reaching out with the Force to realize it wasn’t friendly. Iscah glanced over, and Veréne could tell that her friend _knew_ that whatever was going on with her, whatever had happened to her in that cave, was connected to this ship.

Iscah’s hands once again began flying over the dashboard pressing buttons. “How the fuck did they find us?” she shouted. The matter of interrogating Veréne seemingly forgotten in the face of this new terror, it was clear she had bent her considerable concentration on a new priority: getting them as far away as possible from that ship.

Veréne knew it was there for her, but she couldn’t tell Iscah that. The Call pulsated within her mind, crimson cracks filling her with dread and fear. Whatever she found in the cave had called out to the ship, and whoever else was listening.

“Why aren’t we in hyperspace yet?” asked Veréne, voice cracking.

Iscah stopped touching the dashboard, her eyes unfocused as she stared at the large Destroyer. “Because we’re caught in their tractor beam.”

Iscah’s ocean eyes found Veréne’s green ones, a grimness filling them that Veréne couldn’t remember seeing before. She reached forward and laid a hand on Iscah’s. She felt Iscah’s side of the Bond rush up to meet Veréne’s like a wave as she turned her hand palm-side up to grasp it.

Veréne had already caused her friend grief and worry; she would rather _die_ than let Iscah be caught by that ship when she was certain it was her fault they were there.

“I’ve got a plan.”

* * *

The tractor beam pulled their ship slowly into the Destroyer. Veréne guessed they had about fifteen minutes before they were on the landing bay.

“So, let me get this straight,” said Iscah with the tired sort of exasperation that Veréne knew meant she was at the end of her rope. “We can’t escape—"

Veréne nodded. “ _Obviously_. We’re already in their tractor beam.”

Iscah made a shushing gesture that was ridiculous given their current circumstances, but so _Iscah_ that it was almost enough to distract Veréne.

“Don’t interrupt.” The baleful look she shot at her friend was tinged with fear. “As I was saying, we can’t escape. We _willingly_ get pulled into the ship. Once we’re in the hangar, we pretend to surrender and then in the hallways we—as you so _poetically_ stated—‘lightsaber our way outta that bitch’?”

“And then we find escape pods—”

“Oh yes, let’s not forget the escape pods.” Iscah’s arms crossed over her chest in pure skepticism, and Veréne tried not to remember what that chest would look like with a gaping hole in it. “Uh-huh, sounds like a rock-solid plan. Except that I highly doubt they’re going to let us keep our sabers. Or the heavily weaponized, armored ship that would blast our freighter to smithereens before we even broke their orbit? Oh, and did I mention that one of us has a bum ankle and cannot use the _kriffing Force_?” Iscah slumped down into her chair and glared at Veréne.

“They haven’t blasted us to smithereens yet. So, there’s hope.”

Iscah’s face softened at the mention of hope. That had always been Iscah’s thing, after all. “Hope. Yeah.” Iscah dragged a hand across her face. Veréne slapped her hand away from her face when she realized she was biting her thumbnail absentmindedly. The glare she got in response was half-assed at best, but at least it drew Iscah from the depths of her mind and back to Veréne. “Right. I guess it’s the best chance we have.”

“Of course it is—it’s my plan after all,” Veréne said with a bravado that wouldn’t have fooled Iscah under normal circumstances. “Let’s get ready then.”

The prospect of Iscah being killed cleared Veréne’s mind. Her previous visions, though disturbing, could be dealt with later. Veréne had no intention of letting Iscah step one foot onto that ship. Her true plan had to be carried out soon, however, before Iscah realized Veréne was lying. Again.

As they floated closer and closer to the Destroyer, Veréne could see small white-armored figures within the hangar opening. “Stormtroopers…”

“ _What_? But that means…” said Iscah, turning to face Veréne, that last glimmer of hope within her eyes all but washed away at the sight of the armored figures. 

Stormtroopers were all but extinct after the Battle of Endor had concluded the Empire’s reign. A few factions had been hired to protect surviving Imperial officers and nobles, but almost all of them were supposed to be killed or taken prisoner when Veréne and Iscah were still younglings; or so Master Cal had told them. This wasn’t some Imperial officer’s mini militia. Even this far from the destroyer, Veréne could tell this was a well-organized regiment, fully trained and prepared. The thought of a remnant of the Empire here in front of them was like a lightsaber through Veréne’s heart: the Empire did not take prisoners, especially not Jedi.

“Iscah,” Veréne started, tearing her eyes from the hangar and onto her best friend. Iscah returned the stare with a look of exasperation, determination, and a longing for the truth running through her ocean eyes.

As newly appointed Jedi Knights, they had to get used to staring into the heart of evil. But Veréne knew she would never see her friend again, and that thought made her heart clench painfully. Iscah was as close as a sister to Veréne—closer than a sister, even. They had been together since the beginning, and the idea of being separated was alien to them. But no matter what happened, she wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

The next words Veréne uttered thrummed heavily across their Bond. “Don’t worry okay? Everything will be alright.”

Iscah smiled back gently and lightly touched their Bond in reassurance. Veréne tried to memorize what that smile looked like, a light to hold fast against the darkness that loomed in her immediate future.

“As long as you’ve got my back, I know it will be.”

Veréne, knowing the moment had arrived, worried at the thought of betraying her friend. If she told Iscah the truth… how simple it would have been to utter the words describing what had happened in the cave. But to even herself, they sounded crazy. And if Iscah did believe her? It didn’t bear thinking about. Iscah would never leave her, and Veréne knew she’d be signing her friend’s death warrant. No, she could not let Iscah be caught up in whatever was filling Veréne full of fear and anger and despair…

Had the terror and hatred always been there like this? Looming heavy and ominous like a dark storm cloud?

Crimson once more clouded Veréne’s mind. Her eyes closed, afraid to see another vision. Instead, red lightning flashed through her mind, and the Call was so strong it pounded against her skull like a hammer. Veréne clenched her fists and grabbed her head. She could feel Iscah’s hand on her back, vaguely aware she was saying something. But the anger seemed to funnel from her mind to her fingertips, so quickly and forcefully it was as if actual lightning had struck.

She opened her eyes, the smell of metal tinging the air. Iscah lay slumped in her chair, her eyes closed. Heart racing, Veréne rushed to Iscah’s limp form. Reaching out a tentative hand, she touched her fingers to her friend’s neck. A tiny pulse beat under the skin.

“For Force’s sake,” Veréne whispered. This hadn’t been part of the plan, but by some unknown power within her Veréne had knocked Iscah out. At least she didn’t have to try to conceal her plan from Iscah now.

She stood up and turned toward the dashboard Iscah had wildly been assaulting not five minutes ago. She punched in some coordinates onto the holomap, and a miniature hologram of Iulia popped up. She touched a finger to the exact spot where the Temple was located. A glowing red dot pulsed there, and then she set a corresponding timer to set off in ten minutes.

Satisfied, Veréne had one last thing she needed to do before they reached the hangar, which to her calculations, would be in two minutes. She pressed a finger on the recording button on the dashboard and took a step back.

“So,” Veréne started, “I know you’re going to want answers.”

* * *

The landing bay was enormous, built from large sheets of durasteel and rose at least two hundred meters in the air. TIE fighters dotted the walls, and the floor was black and shiny despite the foot traffic. Hanging from the walls were large red banners depicting a symbol close to the Galactic Empire, but slightly different. Veréne couldn’t tell what it stood for, but she supposed she would find out soon enough.

As her ship hovered over the shiny floor, Veréne could see from the window of her freighter that a small welcoming party had formed just below her. From what she could tell, there were at least a two dozen stormtroopers and two heavily armored, masked uniformed officers. _Inquisitors_ thought Veréne, suddenly very frightened. Any chance of her battling her way off the Destroyer was now seemingly impossible as she stared at the Inquisitors.

A thud announced the landing of her ship on the hangar. Veréne double and triple checked the coordinates and timer, then grabbed Iscah’s unconscious form and lugged her to a smuggler’s compartment.

“For your own good, friend,” she wheezed, stuffing her friend into the closet space. She winced; although Iscah had done her best to heal her sprain, her ankle was still sore and did not handle weight very well. Just another complication that slimmed her chances of survival.

Veréne quickly turned; heavy footfalls announced the boarding of the freighter followed by voices muffled by stormtrooper masks. 

“Locating the target now, sir,” came a voice from behind. Just as Veréne closed the closet door, a stormtrooper rounded the corner. “Hey, you, hands above your head!”

The storm trooper had their blaster pointed at Veréne’s chest. Another one came into view as she raised her hands.

“All clear, she’s the only one on board,” replied the other trooper after completing the thermal scan. Then they raised their arm to their helmet. “We’ve acquired the target, sir.”

“Bring her out,” replied a deep, altered voice on the commlink. Veréne’s mind started to race: somehow they knew her gender, meaning they could have other vital information about her as well. Praying to the Force that they didn’t know about Iscah, Veréne closed her eyes and tried hiding her Bond as well as could from the prying Inquisitors.

“Move it, scum,” said the trooper, pushing Veréne in the chest with the blaster. Opening her eyes lest she fall face first, she followed the second stormtrooper out of the freighter and onto the landing bay.

The hopelessness of her situation compounded ten-fold as soon as Veréne came fact-to-face with the Inquisitors. Her insignificance was so apparent it was practically reflecting off their shiny black helmets. She thought back to what Master Cal had told them his run in with the Second Sister, Trilla Suduri. Inquisitors, however, were supposed to be extinct; they vanished once Darth Vader was killed.

Apparently, this Empirical faction had been capturing Force sensitives for years, unbeknownst to the rest of the galaxy. There were too many Inquisitors, too many stormtroopers, for it to be otherwise. Was this her fate, to be clad in black and capture Jedi?

One stepped forward, hands behind their back. Intimidating, standing almost two meters, red obscuring where their eyes lay hidden and a double-bladed lightsaber hilt secured to their side; just as Cal described them. Veréne could practically feel the malice and anger radiating from this Inquisitor.

“Grab her weapon,” came the same altered voice from the ship. They almost seemed _bored_ , thought Veréne, which made her boil in as much if not more anger than the person in front of her. She reached forward with that anger and found a pulsating Force signature like an open wound emanating from him. _A man._ At least the Force had given her that fact about her captor.

The trooper behind Veréne reached forward and grabbed her lightsaber from her belt, then placed it in the open palm of the Inquisitor. He held it there for a moment, turning it over in his hand. Then he ignited it, staring thoughtfully at the yellow blade. Veréne squirmed, snarling: to wield another’s lightsaber was sacred, and she did not even allow Iscah, her best friend, to use her lightsaber. The Inquisitor tilted his helmeted head at Veréne, finally interested by his prisoner.

“Such a fine blade,” he mocked, “Too bad you won’t need it anymore.” He handed it to the other Inquisitor by his side, then Veréne felt energy cuffs locked onto her wrists. “Follow me, Jedi.”

The trooper who took Veréne’s lightsaber once again pushed the barrel of their blaster harshly into her _back_. “You heard the boss! Move it, scum!”

Veréne turned around, ready to tell the trooper to step the kriff off when the freighter’s engines roar to life behind her. Veréne felt a single thrill of hope spark in her heart at the sound.

“Hey!” shouted a trooper. Several broke ranks and positioned their blasters at the ship’s hull. A few began firing, but to no avail; the ship’s shields were holding up.

“Leave it,” demanded the Inquisitor, his voice back to its bored drawl. His presence alone was enough to command total obedience, but combined with his deep voice Veréne thought legions of troopers would submit to him. “We have what the Supreme Leader requested.”

He began walking towards the blast doors entering the heart of the ship. The troopers fell into line once more and followed their leader back into the ship. Veréne, however, stalled a moment longer staring at the ship as it exited the hangar.

 _Goodbye Iscah_ , she whispered into the now-hidden Bond between them as the ship shot into hyperspace. Then, painfully, she shut down her side of the Bond with as much force and power as she could muster without being noticed by the Inquisitor.

She tried to comfort herself with the knowledge that even though she would never feel the ocean-whisper of the other woman’s thoughts again, Iscah would be safe and _alive_.

It was enough. It had to be.

A trooper grabbed her shoulder and roughly turned her around, pushing her forward towards whatever fate lay ahead.

* * *

_Goodbye, Iscah._

Iscah jolted awake, her friend’s name on her lips, her body aching like she’d been electrocuted. The name was followed quickly by a yelp of pain as she, humiliatingly, smacked the top of her head _hard_ into a too-low ceiling. She curled instinctively into herself, her head already throbbing from the hit and her body feeling tingly and distinctly _not right_. Little starbursts were dancing behind her eyelids and there was a faint, yet alarming, ringing that had begun in her ears.

It was pitch black.

_Where am I?_

Taking a deep, calming breath, Iscah concentrated on her body through the Force. Like rain, she let it wash over her from head to toe, checking and focusing on anything that seemed out of the ordinary. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she withdrew from her mind and relaxed just slightly.

Though even thinking too loudly hurt, there was nothing seriously wrong with her. No lasting damage, although she was sure she’d given herself a nasty lump on the top of her head. The tingling was concerning though, even if she could sense that it wasn’t permanent. There was a touch of something cold, something nearly _dark_ about it that made Iscah’s eyes snap open in alarm.

Her head felt foggy, and the events that had preceded her sudden jolt awake were murky in her mind. One thought, however, cut through the murk like a bolt of lightning.

 _Veréne_.

She reached for the Bond between them, to be both comforted and to reassure her friend that she was okay. But when she brushed up against the corner of her mind that Veréne had always occupied, for almost as long as Iscah could remember, she was met with a very disturbing discovery.

The Bond was foggy, shrouded in impenetrable darkness.

_Veréne!_

Nothing. No answer to the call that echoed unsettlingly across her side of the Bond. Reaching out physically this time, Iscah’s hand met a wall. Confused, she tried to stretch her body out and was unable to. Claustrophobia consumed her almost instantly, but by the grace of her Jedi training she didn’t panic. Instead, she reached out with the Force again until she was able to get the door open. As soon as she did, she tumbled ungracefully out of the small space that was clearly _not_ meant to store a whole-ass human and sprawled on her back.

Iscah didn’t know who the fuck had stuffed her in the kriffing _closet_ , but when she found out, she was going to absolutely murder them.

_Veréne?_

Still no answer.

The ship was unsettlingly silent. A static clung to the air, swelling with a flashing anger and a deep grief that almost seemed to freeze Iscah in place. She could feel the _suffering_ , but was unsure of the source. The durasteel beneath her hands felt unusually cold to her in that moment.

Carefully, Iscah pulled her legs underneath her and got to her knees. She moved painfully slow, hyper-aware of the possibility of being in danger. Her body still tingled, and the lack of response from the Bond was filling her with more and more dread. Something, or someone, had knocked her out and stuffed her into the ship’s smuggling compartment.

Other than Iscah herself, there was only one person off-planet of Iulia who knew about that secret compartment.

After a moment of internal debate, Iscah called out, “…Veréne?”

Nothing.

Iscah rose to her feet, her hand going automatically to her lightsaber at her side. Its familiar weight and texture failed to bring her the comfort it normally would have. Instead, it called to mind the events right before where her memory simply stopped. The strange planet and their exploration of it, Veréne’s disturbing behavior after entering that cave, the Empire ship finding and pulling them within…

 _Everything will be all right_.

“Veréne!”

Still no answer. The suffering pulsed louder throughout the cabin, rhythmic like the beating of a heart.

Iscah took a hesitant step forward, then another. Her legs shook, wobbly from the electric feeling that still tingled through her limbs and from the horrible, growing fear that was swelling like a wave within her.

When nothing sprang out to attack her, she started forward with more confidence, though with every step the suffering pulsed louder and _louder._ She tried to push the growing fear away and into the Force for later examination like Master Cal had taught her, but every empty room she passed sent a jolt through her heart. Her mind felt a damaged hologram, skipping as if stuck in a time loop where nothing was quite real. The shadows in the ship suddenly all seemed malicious, and the sense of claustrophobia was returning.

She searched everywhere on the ship, her stride gradually morphing into a frantic run. She checked all the rooms, every hidden compartment, every corridor. Their ship wasn’t big; Master Cal had acquired it for transporting the children of the Temple in secrecy should the need arise. But, there were a surprising number of hiding places despite the size of the vessel. As she ran through the ship, checking every single compartment, the reality of Iscah’s situation began to catch up with her.

She was alone in the ship.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had been truly alone. Her most significant early memories were of herself and Veréne together. Even after Master Cal had found them clinging to one another in the Trooper’s training outpost, that hadn’t changed, but suddenly they’d had someone looking out for them. And then, after that, they had others to look out for. When Iscah and Veréne had been Knighted, they’d been Knighted _together_ ; not even Master Cal had tried to separate them. They’d grown together, trained together, gone on missions together. Iscah wasn’t sure if it had ever even occurred to either of them that they would _ever_ be apart.

 _Maybe the cockpit_? came the wild, desperate thought as she took off in a sprint.

It didn’t take her long to reach it. The tingling in her limbs and the aching of her head and the disconcerting emptiness of the Bond were all forgotten as soon as she reached the door. But as she palmed the control pad, Iscah could practically taste the suffering on her lips and she  
 _knew_ that her worst fears confirmed lay behind that door

The door slid open, and Veréne wasn’t there.

_VERÉNE!_

She shoved as much of herself as she could into the Bond, trying desperately to get through to her friend. But it was like diving into Temple chef Arden’s special soup and finding your jaw glued together. If anything, it got thicker and more disorienting with each passing second, forcing Iscah to withdraw herself from it completely. That emptiness covered the Bond between her and Veréne, forcing a creeping coldness into Iscah in places she’d never experienced cold inbefore.

Iscah shivered, wrapping her arms around herself in a vain attempt at comfort. The chill was in her body, in her mind, in her soul. Iscah didn’t know how to make it go away. Not even reaching out and touching the Force brought the warmth and reassurance that it normally did. Only the feeling of dread as it creeped across her like ice creeped across a lake.

Out of the corner of her eye, green flashed, and for a fleeting moment Iscah’s heart surged with joy. She reached forward, half expecting to find her friend smirking at her like she always did, but was met instead with a vibrant blinking light coming from the dashboard.

She took a deep, shuddering breath that completely failed to bring her any kind of calm. But she was a Jedi, even if newly Knighted, and she knew she had to get her emotions back under control. As she did, several things occurred to her all at once:

The ship was in hyperspace.

The blinking light was coming from the holo recording station.

The controls were all emergency locked, which meant she wouldn’t be able to do anything until the ship reached its inevitable destination.

If Iscah was alone on the ship in hyperspace, if there were no stormtroopers or Imperial officers around, if Veréne wasn’t anywhere to be found…

Then it likely meant that Veréne was still with the Empire. The Empire had never been known to take any prisoners.

_No. No, Force, please no._

The sense of aloneness was _stifling_.

With her dread growing closer and closer to panic every second, Iscah stepped towards the dashboard where the little light blinked at her mockingly. She didn’t want to press the button and play the holo recording. She really, _really_ didn’t want to. Part of her knew, knew in the deepest waters of her mind, what the recording would say. But hope sprung eternal, and a traitorous part of Iscah’s mind had latched onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, Veréne would have left a message explaining that all was well and that she’d had to separate them. That they’d find each other again just fine.

Even the Force whispered to her that this was a false hope.

With a shaking finger, Iscah pressed the play button for the recording and watched holo version of her friend pop up, blue and ghostly and painfully _not really there_.

“ _So, I know you're going to want answers_ ,” Veréne paused, taking a deep breath, “ _and honestly, I want some myself._ ” She chuckled, but her unease apparent through the hologram. She looked up nervously for a moment, staring at something beyond Iscah’s vision.

Iscah’s heart twisted violently, and despite herself she reached out to the holo recording of her friend.

Her hand, of course, passed through it.

Iscah felt cold.

“ _But… I don't have any, Iscah. I always knew there was something... inside me, and I didn't know what it was until I entered that cave today. And no amount of love or friendship could ever cure me. In that cave I had never felt more afraid in my entire life. Because, Iscah, I_ wanted _to feel the anger; it was the only emotion that made me forget the pain and loss._ ”

Veréne paused again, head bent downward, obscuring the emotions usually so readable in her expressive eyes. Then she looked up, her green eyes not discernible through the blue of the holo and yet Iscah still felt their piercing intensity as her friend stared into the recording machine.

“ _I haven't much time left, so I'll try to get to the point. I did what I had to today to save everyone. Iscah, the ship was there for me, and_ only _me. I saw no other option. One for the good of the many, right?”_ It was something Iscah would say, and the slight upturn of Veréne’s mouth in one corner told Iscah she had known that as she’d said it.

 _“Please, I'm not sure what will happen to me, but you know the Empire never takes prisoners. So, promise me this, Iscah: don't try to find me. You_ will not _die in order to save me, because that's what I'm doing for_ you _, nerf head.”_ She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. _“Remember, everything will be alright._ ” Veréne’s hand reached forward, the transmission ended, and she disappeared from Iscah’s sight.

Iscah stood there, completely frozen for a long, dreadful moment. Then the loss caught up with her, like a rush of water when a dam finally breaks, and she _screamed_.

* * *

She had tried everything short of taking her lightsaber to the controls to turn the ship around. But in the end it didn’t matter in the slightest. Whatever Veréne did had effectively trapped Iscah on the ship with no way to get back to her friend and rescue her. She had even jammed the communications, as Iscah learned when she tried to send out a distress signal hoping that someone would stop the ship in a tractor beam.

She hadn’t bothered to look at the coordinates that Veréne had put into the ship’s computer system. Iscah knew where she was being taken, even without looking at the destination. She varied between states of franticness and despondence as she waited to get where she was going, waited to get to a point where she could finally _do_ something.

_Veréne…_

No response, and she didn’t expect one. A small part of her mind wondered if there would ever be a response again. She shook her head and mercilessly pushed those thoughts aside; they could wait until she figured out how to stop the ship. Although, everything she tried was useless; the ship pushed forward, unmovable and uncaring of Iscah’s plight. Throwing punches at the controls didn’t exactly help, but it kept her mind from eating away at itself in grief.

Veréne was _not_ dead.

Veréne. Stupid, brave, wonderful Veréne. Veréne, who had kept Iscah grounded all her life. Who laughed in the face of Iscah’s fears and dragged her along on some adventure or another despite her half-hearted protests. Filled with nerve and daring, quick to anger but also quick to defend. Steady as a rock, but with all the force and power and presence of lightning.

Verene _was_ alive, she _was_ somewhere out there, and Iscah _was_ going to find her whether she wanted her to or not. And once she did, Iscah was going to _kick her_ _ass_ for even thinking about leaving her behind to, as Veréne stupidly put it, save her. They were a _team_ , damn it!

Iscah absolutely ignored the small part of her mind that whispered that she would have done the exact same thing had their positions been reversed.

Several hours after she’d watched the holo—repeatedly, as if it would suddenly provide her with new, useful information—the ship approached Iulia’s orbit. That brilliant blue planet that Temple Ealhhere called home, swirling with deep blues and dark greens as the Corellian freighter finally broke the atmosphere.

Practically vibrating with panic and need, Iscah shot out of her seat and took off out of the cockpit at a sprint. She didn’t bother waiting to see if anyone was coming to meet the ship. She didn’t even wait for the ship to fully land before she was furiously punching in the codes to open the loading ramp. It wouldn’t open until the ship fully landed, but she did it several times just to spite the stupid thing.

Foam and spray spattered onto the cockpit window: _Temple Ealhhere,_ thought Iscah. _Home._

As the ship nestled onto the rocky hangar bay, Iscah tore into her own mind to find a different Bond. It wasn’t as deep as the one she shared with Veréne, and not nearly as easily accessed. But still it was a constant bastion of warmth and comfort whenever she managed to reach it.

She found the bright, steady light that was Cal Kestis, poured all her urgency into it, and shouted across it with all her might: _Master!!!_

Perhaps she sounded _too_ panicked, because no sooner had the ship landed and the loading ramp lowered than Cal broke the tree line at a Force-enhanced run. Cal Kestis was usually a model of great calm and peace, an example to all his students. But clearly such pretenses were now abandoned as he sprinted towards the freighter. Two other Jedi—Senior Padawans named Xenon, a male Miralukan, and Utuhnira, a female Twi’lek—broke the tree line after Cal had already reached Iscah and the ship.

Iscah hadn’t realized she was hyperventilating until Cal caught her by the shoulders, unspoken questions pouring through their Master-Padawan Bond. But Iscah couldn’t draw enough breath to speak, couldn’t steady the whirlpool in her mind long enough to send him a clear impression back. Her heart felt like it was being squeezed inside her chest. As soon as his hands—scarred and steady as they always were—gripped her firmly she practically collapsed into him.

“Iscah!”

In a very distant part of her mind, Iscah recognized that she was having a panic attack.

She didn’t know how long it took her to stop feeling like she was dying. Long enough for the Senior Padawans to search the ship and return to Cal and Iscah, hanging back awkwardly. Cal was a father figure to all, had treated all his Padawans with the same love and care; but he had always considered Iscah and Veréne as more than his Padawans, ever since he had gripped their little hands and pulled them away from the Imperial outpost.

Like he had done so long ago, Cal pulled Iscah into his arms, wrapping her up both physically and mentally in his Force presence. Though he was alarmed, he kept himself steady and sent that steadying presence as much as he could through their Bond.

Eventually, Iscah came back to herself enough to realize that he was speaking to her.

“—Veréne?”

At the mention of her friend’s name Iscah jolted away from Cal’s grasp, still wide-eyed and breathing hard. Xenon and Utuhnira stared, both distinctly uncomfortable with the situation, and looked to Cal for guidance. He motioned to them to back away a bit, letting Iscah go and rising after her, holding up his hands in a universal gesture of peace.

“I need another ship. The fastest ship we have,” Iscah, finally, said. “I need… I need to _go_. Master, Veréne. They took her. I have to go back. I-I can’t stay here. I have to go-”

“ _Iscah_!” exclaimed Cal, this time with an edge of sternness to his attempt to calm.

Iscah took a step back, part of her urging to just _run_ to the hangar bay and grab the ship and _go_. She knew, of course she knew, that she wasn’t being logical. She wasn’t behaving like a Jedi, certainly not one that Veréne should’ve given her life for. But she couldn’t just stand here wasting more time than she had already wasted. Every second she stayed there was another second that her friend slipped further and further away from her.

She needed to find Veréne, _now_.

Before she could take another step away, Cal managed to catch her by the upper arms. _Calm down, Padawan. Breathe,_ he sent across their Bond. The old, familiar title touched something in her that had been previously lost to panic and confusion. Cal was like a father, had guided her to become confident in her powers, had trained her to become one with the Force.

She felt his Force presence swirling with hers, sensed that he was trying to make her mirror his breathing like he had done with them when they were children. Part of her resisted it, still hellbent on leaving _right this second_ to get back to Veréne. But Iscah had always been a dutiful student, and the larger part of her relaxed in her Master’s presence. It took her a few tries, but eventually she managed to slow her breathing enough to mirror his.

“ _Good_ , Iscah, very good.” The praise, even in this situation, steadied and grounded her a little bit more. “Now, tell me what happened,” her Master said, a little more urgently.

She opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by Utuhnira, who now stood behind her. “Master Cal, I’m sorry, but if I may… There’s a recording on the ship’s log. It’s from Veréne Aro before…”

Cal frowned as she trailed off. “Before…?” He looked to Xenon, who shrugged unhappily, his mouth twisting into a poorly concealed frown. “Before what?”

A tremor overtook Iscah, but somehow she managed to take a shaky breath. “Before the Empire took Veréne.”

* * *

“You can’t go after her.”

“Master, with all due respect and love, kriff off.”

Iscah ignored the half-indignant, half-amused snort that came from her beloved Master. She just continued throwing her belongings into bags. No one in Temple Ealhhere had very much, and nearly all of what the Jedi did have had specific uses. Iscah packed her life away quickly, efficiently, but her hands still shook as she did it.

The room that she and Veréne had shared felt stale and stagnant. Iscah knew it was only her imagination, knew it had only been a few days since she and Veréne had been in it together, alive. Since they’d stood there, cracking jokes at each other’s expenses, talking excitedly over their new mission.

_‘Come on, it’ll fun!’ Veréne had said, punching Iscah’s arm playfully._

_‘You think everything dangerous is fun,’ Iscah winced, rubbing her arm where Veréne had punched her._

_‘Of course I do. What’s fun in being dull?’_

_‘How about being alive?’ said Iscah as she threw her robe into her bag._

_‘Always such a worrywart, Iscah.’ Veréne came over and slung an arm around her friend. Iscah couldn’t help but grin as Veréne squeezed her tightly. ‘Hey, don’t you worry, nothing bad will happen. I promise.’_

“You promised.” Iscah’s words were met with empty walls and Veréne’s unmade bed. She was glad to pick up her two packs, was glad to be able to finally leave the room. Even if Cal was trailing her like a disapproving shadow.

Several hours had passed since Cal, using the recording and Iscah’s own shaky retelling of what had happened, had pieced together the fateful events of the failed mission. Several hours more that Veréne was in Imperial custody, Iscah’s mind thought viciously. But Cal had insisted that she be checked over for injury and then made her run through the events twice more to ensure he hadn’t missed anything.

After they’d finished, Iscah had stood up and announced she was leaving. She _would_ find Veréne, even if it got her killed in the process.

Cal was, understandably, a tad distressed by his student’s fatalistic determination.

“Iscah, you and I both know that the Empire doesn’t take prisoners. It never has. Not when it was in its full power, and certainly not any of its remnants now.” His voice was gentle, but it was firm. Iscah knew from experience that she wasn’t going to get out of this conversation easily. “Hell, _Veréne_ herself knew that, made a point to _state_ that. She wouldn’t want you getting yourself killed just to-”

Iscah whirled, packs dropping from her hands to the ground in her fury. “I don’t _care_ what Veréne would want me to do! Fuck, if our positions were reversed _she’d_ be the one rushing off to find me. I am not going to just abandon her! Just because you don’t care-”

She broke off immediately, catching the look of hurt that crossed her Master’s face: she had gone too far.

For all that Cal had tried to emulate his own Jedi training in his students, he had filled their lives with nothing but love and warmth and empathy. Each of them had a deep bond with him, and so Iscah _knew_ Cal Kestis loved all of them fiercely. Knew that he would die for any of them.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

They were a ‘them’. There were more students here than just Iscah and Veréne, though the pair had been his firsts. Cal couldn’t afford to run off to save Veréne, even if Iscah could feel that he wanted nothing more than to do just that. Cal had younglings to raise, Padawans to train, young Jedi to guide. He had more than just Iscah and Veréne: he had a future to take care of.

Iscah, though? Iscah’s future _was_ Veréne. She couldn’t just let go of her friend, not while there was any chance of rescuing her.

They’d been ‘Iscah and Veréne’ for so long that Iscah wasn’t sure if she would be able to handle hearing her name without her friend’s attached to it. For all their lives, Veréne had run off into danger and adventure, and Iscah had followed her with equal amounts of joy and trepidation.

Was it really so surprising to anyone that Iscah would do so now?

Attachments—those possessive, needy things that made them weak and dependent—went against everything the Jedi were supposed to emulate. To be attached to someone meant putting one’s bond with them above reason, above duty, above all else. Iscah knew that her behavior wasn’t fitting of her rank and title. But even so…

Even so.

Iscah stepped forward, taking her Master’s hands in her own. It occurred to her suddenly that he was getting _old_. He wouldn’t be around to guide and protect them all forever. Sooner rather than later he would start needing help to train, teach, and guide the future generation of Jedi. Iscah knew that she and Veréne had always been intended for that role. What would become of Temple Ealhhere if Iscah failed to bring Veréne back? If she lost her life in the attempt? Would any of his other students—leaps and bounds away from being at the level of Iscah and Veréne—be able to pick up the slack when he needed them?

Iscah didn’t know, and the fact that she was still going to leave the Temple despite that frightened her.

“I’m sorry, Master.”

“Iscah—”

Iscah held one hand up. “I’m sorry that I’m not as strong, or as good as you. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to save Veréne. I’m sorry I’m not strong enough to let go of this attachment.”

“You’re not—”

“ _Master_ ,” she said in a fair imitation of Cal’s own ‘Master’ persona. She was gratified to see his mouth snap shut, tired amusement flickering in his eyes. “Although I am not as strong as you, or as brave as Veréne, I am still doing this. With or without your blessing.”

And with that, she took a step backwards and deeply bowed to her Master. She could feel him staring at her as she took the lightsaber from her belt and offered it to him. The tension in the room swelled, a wave right before it finally breaks. The meaning was clear: if he wouldn’t give her his blessing then she wouldn’t undertake this task as a Jedi.

Cal stared at her for a long moment, then sighed deeply. Stepping forward, he folded her hands back around her weapon. Iscah looked up, meeting his somber expression with surprise.

It wasn’t that she had expected him to strip her of her title of Jedi Knight. Not really. But it was the ferocity with which he held her hands over the lightsaber, the way he pressed them against her chest. Like a shield against the storm he knew his former Padawan was about to throw herself into.

As if anything could shield Iscah from what was coming. As if she wanted anything to.

Cal released her after a long, fraught moment. Iscah almost swayed as he stepped back from her, surveying his student like he had used to do before sparring practice. Then he reached down and grabbed her bags for her, dubiousness and pride warring in his eyes.

“No matter what, Iscah, I have been and always will be proud of you.”

Iscah smiled back, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. His words touched her, but she had other things to think of. “Thank you, Master. Truly.”

“Just… bring her back if you can. But also bring _yourself_ back.”

Iscah turned and made her way to the hangar bay, determination and resolve strengthening with every footstep. Her Master followed her like a silent shadow.

She had never been alone before.

She had never undertaken such a monumental and desperate task.

She had never faced such a tidal wave of heartbreak in her life.

But somehow, despite that, her chin lifted defiantly. Stubbornness and loyalty were her defining characteristics, Master Cal had once told her. They had the potential to be equal parts her greatest strengths or her greatest weaknesses. She kept both close to her heart now; she would need them if she was going to rescue Veréne from the Empire’s dark grasp.

 _Don’t worry, Veréne_ , she sent into the fog that obscured their Bond, knowing it was probably useless, _I’m coming for you._

“Don’t worry, Master Cal. I will not fail.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains blood, gore/injury, descriptions of mutilation/maiming, and panic attacks.


	3. Better Than Guilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there everyone! Thanks for reading and supporting our Star Wars fic <3
> 
> Please enjoy as we destroy the main ladies slowly and deliberately (we are not psychopaths, we swear!) and give poor Veréne a Force-hug, would ya? She kinda deserves it after this chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy, nerf-heads!
> 
> See end of chapter notes for chapter-specific warnings!
> 
> Also! Here's your chapter playlist link if you want to ramp up your suffering:  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4t8PqOhD6gRibX9pKdBV4A?si=W9s98hNbQi2QJxmqSwCRJQ

**23 ABY**

Veréne awoke with a shock.

It wasn’t real. It _couldn’t_ be real. It was only a dream. She would open her eyes and find Iscah’s warm blue gaze smiling back at her.

But the skin on her wrists, raw to the touch, screamed the truth… 

She was an Imperial prisoner.

Glancing down, she noticed containment cuffs blazing a tiny field around her agitated wrists and ankles. There was no way for her to call on the Force to free herself; the cuffs made sure of that. Veréne closed her eyes, trying to meditate and clear her mind of the shock-jagged thoughts that wouldn’t stop racing. But she couldn’t call upon the Force to aid her, and the attempt at meditation was anything but centering. Instead, she slammed her head back in frustration. A small rivulet of blood ran from her temple, trickling slowly down her face and dripping from her chin.

Her head was _pounding_. 

Several haggard breaths later, Veréne calmed down enough to take in her surroundings. She side-eyed her cell or, at least, what she supposed was a cell. The walls were black and formed an octagon around her seat in the middle; numerous buttons glowed white, red, and blue on the wall to her right. The floor was a grey durasteel with red up lighting, casting a sickly glow onto the walls. One thing she knew for sure: this was no mere holding cell. 

It looked more like the kind of place someone was taken to for interrogation.

Her head still throbbing, she tried to recount the moment she surrendered herself, the moment she stepped off of her ship and onto the star destroyer. It could have been twenty minutes ago, or it could have been two days ago—it was impossible to tell in the sterile, monochrome environment. She tried to rub the tender spot on her temple, but forgot her wrists, raw and bloody, were bound; they felt as if flame burst open through the oozing wounds the moment the cuffs were pulled flush against them.

“Son of a nerfling!” she gritted out, clenching her teeth through the pain. Feeling more desperate than when she first awoke, a large pit opened in her stomach and began to churn her insides. She wouldn’t be able to call upon the Force for escape, which left her with only her wit and cunning. Which wasn’t much to begin with, if she was being honest with herself. 

She was going to die there, in that room, as a prisoner of the Empire. 

If Iscah had been there, she would have been able to come up with a plan. She always had a plan; Iscah was the brain to Veréne’s brawn. _Trust in the Force,_ she would say in a very Master Cal fashion, _and use the tools provided to you._ Well, that would prove difficult, considering the containment cuffs caused disruption in her Force abilities. All she had left to call upon was her lightsaber...

_Her lightsaber._

She tried feeling for the energy of her saber, pushing through the mild pain caused by the cuffs. Faint and erratic, it pulsed like a tiny heartbeat, crying out weakly into the Force. Not having it there with her, hanging by her side, felt as though she were missing a limb. Veréne was reminded of the moment she picked out her kyber crystals, of Master Cal instructing how attuned a young Jedi was with the energy. _The Kyber is one with your personal Force energy, Veréne. Once chosen, it forms to you, becomes not merely a weapon but an extension of who you are._ She remembered smiling and nodding, too excited for a lightsaber to comprehend what her Master was saying until this moment when she felt vulnerable, empty, naked without her extension of the Force made material. 

Trying to distract herself from the keening loss of her saber, she took stock of her physical condition.

The gash in her temple, still oozing slowly, sat above a bruised and swollen eye. Veréne licked her lips and hissed when her tongue passed over a scabbed cut, reopening it. Her whole body felt like one big bruise; those bucketheads hadn’t been exactly gentle when they’d confiscated her. The thought made her lip curl, ignoring how her lip now bled faster.

She spat out some of the blood and then focused her attention inward. She wasn’t sure what, exactly, the Imperial scum wanted from her, but regardless she didn’t think they’d been overly careful of the damage they’d done. Her suspicions were confirmed when she found a sharp, aching break in the left side of her ribcage. As soon as she found it, Veréne became hyper-aware of every breath she took, how sharp each one felt. The Jedi moved her attention downwards, trying to breath as steadily as possible. Her ankle was still damaged from her fall in the cave, still a throbbing reminder of how limited her options were.

Even if she managed to escape the cuffs, the chair, the room, how far would she get? While injured, and without her lightsaber to boot? Not bloody far enough. Certainly not all the way to the escape pods, which were no doubt as far from the interrogation cell as they could be on the damned destroyer. Veréne didn’t know the schematics of the ship at all, and the bit of it she’d seen before they’d knocked her out had all looked the same. She’d be lost in a maze of durasteel in minutes and they’d recapture her without breaking a sweat.

“For Force’s sake,” Veréne muttered bleakly, the metallic taste of her own blood filling her mouth again. The more she contemplated her situation, the more hopeless she realized it all was.

She screwed her eyes shut when she felt the mortifying heat of tears begin to well up. Her ribcage ached as she began to breath faster, feeling the frustration and apprehension start to morph into something sharper, darker. She tried to calm herself—tried to keep the frustration from becoming fury and the apprehension from becoming terror—by mentally listing all the asses she was going to kick if she managed to free herself.

 _When_ she managed to free herself.

 _Fuck_ , she thought viciously, her thoughts electrifyingly sharp even to herself.

What she wouldn’t give to feel the calming waves of Iscah’s Force signature from their Bond.

 _Everything will be okay_ , she could almost hear her friend saying in that tone so full of love and warmth that it could soothe Veréne, even on the worst of days.

She had heard those words from Iscah’s mouth countless times. She’d whispered it on Oatune, she’d mumbled it when they had been taken by the stormtroopers as children, she’d yelled it through the hurricane on Iulia when they were stuck on the mountain rescuing Mads’ sotecoon, and she’d said it while grasping Veréne’s hand during their graduation ceremony. They were a ritualistic comfort that meant they had each other’s backs, that their love held strong.

They were the last words Veréne had spoken to Iscah... The last words Veréne would _ever_ speak to Iscah. The last testament of their unfailing Bond.

So Veréne called upon those words now, chanting them in her head over and over. She hardly noticed when one of the walls slid open, and a tall figure clad in black entered the room.

“Meditation will not help you escape,” the figure commented blithely.

Veréne narrowed her eyes, glaring daggers at the stranger. “Oh really? I thought I had a real chance against these containment cuffs and durasteel walls, especially without my lightsaber.”

The stranger—a man, she assumed based on the deep, bored voice—stood unflinchingly before her, still as stone. It was then that Veréne became uncomfortably aware of the power radiating from him. _Not just a stranger, she realized as_ she noticed the scuffed dual-spinning hilt attached to his waist. 

_Inquisitor,_ she gulped. Veréne had heard all about Inquisitors from Cal; from Bracca and Bogano, to Kashyyyk and Dathomir, he had been hunted across the galaxy by the Second Sister after the Great Jedi Purge. They had made great fireside tales but seeing a Jedi-killer in person... Veréne felt a sudden sense of peril and empathy for what her young Master went through. She knew she stood no chance against him in purely hand-to-hand combat. Not without the Force, certainly not without her lightsaber, and probably not even with both at her disposable. The Inquisitor conveyed power and strength, training and control, just by standing before her.

Veréne began to have a very bad feeling about this.

“Ah, so that’s how it’s going to be, snide remarks and a sharp tongue?” he asked, voice deceptively casual. “This is going to be fun.”

“What was that? You’ll have to speak up because I can’t hear a fucking thing you say through that ridiculous helmet,” Veréne sneered with bravado, hating how intimidated she felt. 

Suddenly her throat closed up, and she sputtered for words. Her hands automatically jerked up to her throat, which felt like it was collapsing in on itself. The action opened up the skin on her wrists even further, causing the sluggish bleeding to flow more profusely now. She kicked against the cuffs on her ankles and her damaged ankle _screamed_ protest at its treatment.

She was dying, and she could do nothing but struggle like a gorg on a wire.

“Well, well, playing the game already... Seems you like being handled rough,” the Inquisitor growled. Turning his back to Veréne, her throat opened once more. She gasped for life, her body slouching against the restraints, exhausted from the struggling. She aimed a particularly nasty look at the back of his head but said nothing.

He must have felt her fiery glare as he removed his helmet though. “Better with your eyes than with your annoying mouth,” he commented sardonically, voice no longer distorted. He placed the helmet on a shelf, and she found herself staring at wavy brown hair. 

The Inquisitor turned around, and Veréne felt her glare soften to surprise.

His jawline was strong, proud, marked by stubble that was good-looking rather than unkempt. His mouth was twisted in a permanent smirk that made Veréne’s stomach do an odd flip. She watched as his thick brows rose above his dark, dark eyes that seemed to hold all manner of secrets. His hair brushed slightly into his face, and Veréne was found wondering how someone like this had become so twisted, so dark.

It occurred to Veréne that she had never before thought of evil as being capable of looking so… normal. She’d been picturing stormtroopers, faces left to the imagination under identical helmets, or Sith made twisted and hideous by their use of the dark side of the Force. She hadn’t expected someone handsome, a face she would’ve freely admitted being attracted to under other circumstances. Hatred for him mixed uncomfortably with something else inside of her.

“Well now, that’s impressive. I see my charming good looks have rendered you speechless. Maybe I should keep my helmet off permanently then, if it keeps you this quiet,” he laughed, the sound annoyingly rich and pleasant. Veréne furrowed her brows, angry at herself for the sudden heat glowing on her cheeks, which only made her tongue sharper.

“What can I say? I’m stunned. Your resemblance to a nerf herder is just _so_ astonishing.” She shrugged, wincing at the pain it caused her wrists. “My advice would be to use an adhesive to permanently adhere the helmet to your head. Just a suggestion.” 

He stared at her for a long moment. A _very_ long moment. A moment so long that Veréne was bracing for another Force-choke. Then his smirk widened into a wolfish grin, teeth shining against the blackness of the room.

“ _Damn_ , you have quite the mouth,” he said, eyes hovering on her lips. “I take back what I said earlier. I like it.”

His intense scrutiny brought flames rushing to her cheeks once more. _Get your feelings under control Veréne!_ Was it the dark looks he gave her, or just the darkness she sensed swirling within him that made her pause and flare up like Tatooine’s double suns? Back on Iulia, Master Cal was never strict when it came to building relationships between Padawans, and Veréne had had her share of sloppy kisses in the dark corners of the Temple. For all her snide remarks, she was no stoopa; she knew the Inquisitor was powerful, that he would kill her in an instant if she gave him an opening. Gulping back her fear and... _whatever_ it was that made her glow crimson, she shut down the parts of her mind she could under the slow, undulating waves of pain from the containment cuffs. 

No one would ever be able to get inside her mind again.

“Look here, you creep,” Veréne growled, summoning up all the haughty indignation she could muster, “either get to the torturing part or just kill me and spare me your perverted comments.”

He stepped closer to Veréne, hands behind his back. “Tut tut. So eager, young Jedi,” he began, taking off his gloves, “but I like to take my time.”

He bent forward, his face so close Veréne could see the tiny flecks of gold in the dark brown of his irises. She shivered when his ungloved fingers traced over her bruises, instinctively pulling her head in the other direction. Gently, his hand cupped her chin and turned her face back to expose the wounds.

“And what happened here?” he asked. She noticed his eyebrows were furrowed, and his eyes shone with a vibrant intensity. Before she could say anything, she felt a pull within her memories, then flashes of stormtroopers and herself curled up on the floor protecting her face.

_She felt her ribs break, her skin tear open as feet collided with her body. She felt the warm pulse of blood and then the searing anger that coursed through her veins, obliterating all other emotion besides a swelling hatred within the core of her mind…_

_Enough!_

Veréne gritted her teeth and pushed as hard as she could against the Inquisitor’s Force presence. When she opened her eyes, the bones of her hands clenched into ragged peaks and her teeth felt as though they would crack against each other. Staring back at her were dark eyes no longer sprinkled with gold but glowing crimson from the light, his forehead shining slightly and his chest heaving. Was he… _exhausted_? His brows were drawn together as if in confusion, yet his eyes... Those bronze eyes sparkled with a fervor she couldn’t place.

“Seems as though I’ve got more on my hands than I’d bargained for,” he said, pushing his hair back. That smirk remained on his face, and the spark in his eyes outlined a crimson rim around the bronze. He had encountered something that had surprised him, and it seemed to Veréne that this Inquisitor was not accustomed to surprises.

“Seems as though you’ve misjudged a datapad by its case,” she replied, trying to turn her thoughts away from the pain and anger. Unable to use the Force in retaliation, her mental shields already brought low, she had to suffer as he probed through her memories, forcing her to relive the cruelty of her capture once more. 

_I wonder if he felt it too…_

_“_ You’ve misunderstood me. I never doubted your strength, Jedi. But it seems there is more hiding behind this well-structured mask you’ve so painstakingly built.” His eyes shifted from hers, gliding down to her lips. Fingers reached out slowly, but then pulled back.

She saw the hesitation and thought better than to say anything.

“Let’s pry that mask off, shall we?”

He got up and turned to the door, glancing back once at his captive in the chair. He looked… almost haunted. Veréne felt a stab of fear, but not of the Inquisitor. She tried to conceal it, keep it from surfacing in her expressive green eyes, but he seemed to catch it, nonetheless. As the door slid open and the man stepped out, Veréne caught sight of an eager, dimpled grin on his smooth face that did nothing to soothe her rising tension. 

* * *

Veréne could handle physical torture. 

At least, she thought she could.

Back home on Iulia scraped and cut-up skin, bone deep bruises, and broken limbs were commonplace. Training as a Jedi was romanticized by long tales of the heroes of old, passed down by generations. The reality was far less glamorous than the old stories would have people believe. The work and training of the Jedi was strenuous and taxing and _grueling_. Veréne could distinctly recall renouncing her training and the entire Jedi Order while throwing objects against walls of her room. More than once.

Yet the Force had always called out to her from the depths of the abyss, from times when she had thought all was lost. It had always sung of hope and love and joy; it had placed her in the forgiving arms of Master Cal; it had clung tightly to the hand of Iscah, the one person she could always rely on. Try as she might, she could never relinquish the Force.

Nor could it relinquish her.

Daro, the bronze-eyed Inquisitor who oversaw her interrogation sessions, used methods Veréne was not expecting. She waited with bated breath for the first slice of skin, the shock of electro daggers, the icy sheets of water poured onto her suspended head. But she was left sighing with relief. 

That is, until he came in one day and she saw the extra containment braces he brought with him.

Still strapped to the chair, she found out that the brace was meant for her head. As Daro was strapping her down, the dawning reality of her situation made her insides flounder with fear. Of course, rather than show she was scared, she used her next best weapon.

“Why didn’t you just say you were into this kinky stuff in the first place? It would’ve saved you plenty of trouble.”

“My dear Jedi, the surprise is half the fun,” he said, flashing a grin, as he clamped shut the buckle around her head.

Not calm enough to steady her breath, Veréne began to jerk her wrists and ankles against her cuffs, tried turning her head this way and that. Out of all the Padawans Cal had taught, Veréne had always seemed to render her Master speechless with furrowed brows and a bitten lip. Always.

“A containment cuff? For my kriffing _head_?”

Daro smiled. “I’ve been wanting to pry back all those layers, those faces you’ve painted on throughout the years. And now I’ll get to.”

He sat down by her left side, pulling off his gloves one finger at a time. Try as she might, still to no avail, her head would not move, and her eyes began to feel strained from side-eyeing his deft movements. Sighing, she stared straight ahead and gathered what strength she had left for the Inquisitor’s onslaught, making sure the wall in her mind was secure once again.

“Accepting defeat already? I was looking forward to your snippy comments, Jedi.” When Veréne said nothing, he sighed and shrugged as though her resistance meant nothing to him. “Business only, I see. Fine, though you’ll regret it. I’ll have fun either way.”

“Just get going already!” she growled between snarling teeth.

Flashing a grin, he placed one finger against the middle of her forehead, then pressed down.

Veréne screamed or thought she did. She heard no noise, but she felt the pain. White-hot and unrelenting, like a drill carving its way into her skull. Then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.

She opened her eyes, gasping. Tears streamed down her face, and pain hammered against the inside of her skull to the point where she thought it might just explode.

“Fuck… you’re a tough nut to crack.” She side-eyed the Inquisitor through the pooling tears. It seemed as if he had just Force-sprinted the length of the destroyer and back. “It would be much easier, for both of us,” he gasped between heaving breaths, “if that wall inside that pretty head of yours just _came down_.”

“Who said I’d be easy?” she taunted, equally breathless, glaring at him as best she could out of the corner of her eye. 

Neither one of them laughed, nor smiled.

Shaking his head, he once more pressed against Veréne’s forehead.

This time, memories flashed before her eyes in small bursts. The pain from both her containment brace and his Force intrusion were immense but focusing on the blurred movements between memories allowed her to calm her mind somewhat. 

_Something Cal would be proud of,_ she would think later, alone in her cell, trying to comfort herself with whatever came to mind.

Through blurred snatches of memory, she saw the smiling faces of Iscah and Cal, the waves crashing against the ancient stone of her home. A small freighter ship, landing near a forgotten temple. A dark cave, black as night, then a flash of red like a lightning strike against the churning sky… Then she saw herself, silver-haired holding a red blade kneeling over an unconscious, familiar form, a hole sizzling in their abdomen…

“ _NOOOOOOO!_ ”

Veréne’s body arched forward, her head and wrists slamming against the cuffs. She tasted the salty tang of iron in her mouth and realized she had almost completely bitten through her tongue.

She slowly tried to relax her cramping body, the tears sliding freely down her face. She held back her whimpers, and the blood began pooling in her mouth. A blurred black figure dominated her vision, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

“Finally, it looks like we’re getting somewhere.” She felt a cloth on her lips and opened her eyes in surprise. He wiped up the excess blood dripping from her lips, and all she could do was stare. “I told you, I would rather this be _easy_.”

She spat the blood that was left in her mouth right into the Inquisitor’s face. Pausing for a moment, he slowly took the cloth and wiped the spattered blood.

“My dear, I have all the time in the galaxy to continue doing this. But the real question is, do you... Veréne Aro?”

She looked at him as though he had slapped her. Somehow, she held her tongue; mostly because it literally hurt her to do otherwise. Nonetheless, she was stunned that he had found out her name so quickly. 

_What else has he learned?_ Will _he learn?_

Turning her eyes to the ceiling, she said nothing. When the soft pad of his finger lingered over her skin, she closed herself off from the world, wondering how long it would be before her time ran out.

* * *

Veréne raced through the hallways, feet screeching against the shiny floor. She had no idea where she was going, but she knew she had to leave. Back there, in that room… There was no way she could go back. Not alive, anyway.

She rounded a corner, then stopped. At the end of the black-walled hallway, someone stood shrouded in shadow. Red tendrils wove their way through the shadow from the figure’s fingertips. They cackled, and even from this distance, Veréne could feel the static in the air. Suddenly her hair stood on end, and she reached for the lightsaber hilt at her side.

There was none.

The figure pulled their hood down, revealing silver hair and eyes… those _eyes_. They burned like fire, red hot and pulsating.

Veréne couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. Her heart was in her throat, and she was paralyzed.

It was _her._ The one from the cave.

“Who…are you…?” she managed to ask, voice little more than a whisper.

The figure smiled, the expression tearing across her face like a bleeding gash. Her voice was like two lightsabers clashing.

“ _You know who I am._ ”

“No, you’re not… you can’t be…”

“ _End it Veréne, go on.”_

Veréne dropped to her knees and the figure ignited their lightsaber. Crimson light splashed on the black walls like blood splatter.

_“You have to end it for it to begin.”_

Tears spilled, and all Veréne could do was stare open-mouthed as the figure raced forward with her lightsaber, slashing upwards as Veréne closed her eyes…

“You _want_ to be in this chair. You think you _deserve_ it. Do you, Veréne Aro?”

“Do I deserve it…?”

Veréne was waking from a terrible dream. Her head hurt as if she was being split down the middle. The chair she was collapsed against was cold, but her fingers felt a familiarity in its worn grooves. Her vision cleared, and she was sitting in the cockpit of a freighter. _Mads’ freighter_ , the one she and Iscah had used to find the dilapidated Jedi temple. 

It seemed like so, _so_ long ago...

“Iscah…”

Sitting across from her was her friend, her foundation. She was smiling that familiar, soft smile of hers, her pretty blue eyes shining. It was a look that meant everything would be okay.

“I think I had the most terrible dream…” started Veréne, looking around the cockpit.

“Who said it was a dream?”

Veréne was drawn back to her friend’s face. Her voice was distant, as if she was standing meters away. But she was so close that Veréne could reach out and touch her knee if she’d wanted to, like she had a thousand times before. And her _smile…_ there was something wrong in the way she smiled now. Iscah’s smile had always been light, warm, open. But now there was a hint of a secret, as though Veréne was out of the loop and that pleased Iscah to no end.

Suddenly, feeling frightened, Veréne looked out the cockpit window and saw nothing. No stars, no planet, no terrain, _nothing_.

“Who are you?” Veréne asked, turning back to the figure that wore her friend’s face.

“No… Who are _you_? Veréne would never leave me, never betray me to get carried off by the Empire. She would have stuck by my side until the end.”

“What are you talking about—Iscah, I _had_ to leave! I had to _save_ you!”

“Save me, or save yourself?” Her friend’s head tilted to one side at an unnerving angle. The mocking, contemptuous expression on Iscah’s face was unnatural. “You wanted to go, Veréne. You like being in that chair because, deep down, you know that something is _off_ about you. That deep inside, you were made _wrong_. This is what you’ve always wanted.”

Iscah, blue eyes clouded and deadened, made a gesture towards her body. Where flesh had once been whole was now broken and bloody. Her clothes were stained crimson and left in tatters. Her face was bruised, and an oozing cut flooded over her eye. Most alarming, however, was the empty space on Iscah’s right side. With a pained gasp, Veréne realized with horror that Iscah’s right arm had been seared off, bits of muscle still clung to the raw edges of the wound. A large hole sizzled in her abdomen, and Veréne choked back the vomit rising in her throat.

“Iscah, no…”

She was still smiling that awful, cruel smile even as blood bubbled up past her lips. With her remaining arm, Iscah reached up. To Veréne’s utter horror, she pressed her fingers against the gaping wound in her ribcage. She winked, then looked down, and Veréne’s eyes followed her gaze. She watched, transfixed, sickened, as her friend’s fingers sank into the singed, bloody flesh. The almost overwhelming urge to lunge forward and pull her hand away from the grotesque wound—to stop Iscah from hurting herself further—was overridden by a bone-deep paralysis.

Iscah looked back up, smile still cruel and eyes still dead. “Still think you can save me, Veréne?”

Hot tears spilled down her cheeks, and suddenly she could move again. With shaking hands, she tried to reach out to her friend, wanting more than anything to stop the disturbing sight before her. But then red light washed over her, and she noticed her own hands were bloody, that she was holding a crimson lightsaber.

“You’ve never been able to save _anyone_.”

Fat rain droplets soaked her through, and she stared up at a velvet night sky. No longer were they on the freighter, but on the treacherous cliffs of Temple Ealhhere. The ancient stone beneath her feet would have felt warm and welcoming, if it were not for Iscah’s limp form, lying on the wet ground, reaching for Veréne with her remaining arm.

“Veréne…” Iscah sputtered, coughing up blood. “All you do is get people killed.”

“ _NOOOOOOO_!”

The pain was too great, the memories hammering against her skull reminding her of her father, of Oatune, and now Iscah…

_Iscah..._

She dropped to her knees and felt the stone give way underneath her, turning to dirt. Squinting at the radiant sun, she drew a deep breath.

She knew where she was without having to touch the flowering grass.

She was on her old home planet, Oatune. 

She knew exactly where she needed to be.

Drawing herself up, she walked and walked until below a hillcrest laid a tiny village. _Her_ tiny village.

“Yaruta,” she breathed.

It looked like it had ten years ago: simple wooden houses with wide windows that opened to the sea. Sand mingled with the earth, the salt on the breeze tousled her hair. All was quiet besides the wind rustling the grass.

Her feet carried her through the village, stopping outside a large structure that faced the ocean. Veréne did not move. She stood staring at the empty porch. Then the door slid open, revealing a dark abyss.

She knew what would happen next. 

The sky churned as she entered the structure, but her feet carried her forward until she was swallowed by the dark. 

Inside was a thick mist, clinging to her body with cold tendrils. From the darkness, a light shone. Veréne walked towards it and saw a small lantern with electric light burning inside. She reached out to touch it, then heard small wails from behind her. Turning, Veréne noticed about a dozen children huddled together in the dark, watching as another figure reached for the structure’s door.

“No, please! Don’t leave us!” came a familiar, strangled cry.

“I’ll be right back, just stay here!” yelled the taller figure as she sprinted out of the wooden building. _Mistress Tamith_ thought Veréne, aware now of who it was that called out to her. 

Squatting down near the small huddle, Veréne recognized unruly dark hair and a smattering of freckles on her face. She clung to another girl sitting close to her, their hands intertwined tightly. _Iscah._ Her young friend’s blue eyes were strangely distant, then flashed fearfully as another girl screamed, blaster shots sizzling through the wooden walls. Veréne could hear screams outside, people wailing. Then Mistress Tamith’s firm voice carried through from the street.

“Please, we are a simple prefecture. Just leave us be!”

“Round her up with the others!” shouted a muffled voice. Slowly, Veréne stood up and walked towards the wall as if in a trance. Through one of the blaster holes, she was able to see people being herded across the street. Several white-armored troopers stood with their backs to Veréne as they raised their blasters.

“Keep it steady now,” ordered the trooper, as calmly as if he was overseeing a new building. His raised hand was suddenly brought downward, and bright red filled the darkened sky as screams tore through the night. Then the sound of crumpled bodies hit the dirt.

The children behind her began to sob, some muffling their cries with shaking hands. All of a sudden, Veréne turned her head as the door burst open and a stormtrooper barreled through, blaster first.

“We’ve found more, eastern dwelling,” said the stormtrooper into their commlink. “Get up,” he commanded, waving his blaster at the younglings. Veréne felt a hot rage rise in her throat, but she could do nothing but follow as her younger self and friend were brought out into the cold, windless night. 

As they walked down the streets, the mist at the edges of her vision began to unveil more of their surroundings. Veréne watched as people were being dragged from their homes then blasted where they stood. Bodies sizzled from the gaping wounds in their chests or from the fires set on the dwellings. Screams and shouts echoed through the alleyways. Blood ran thick through the dirt, the sludge spattering onto her boots.

Finally, the trooper motioned the group forward into another sobbing huddle of children. They were just outside the prefecture, near the grassy hills. Quiet whimpers cut through the night, and shivering despite no wind, Veréne felt a familiar coldness running down her spine. She knew what was to happen next; she had known the moment she’d arrived here on Oatune, the moment she’d spotted peaceful Yaruta nestled against the ocean. This was one of those moments for which she would never forgive herself, a haunting moment in her past that would forever torment her.

It was _her_ fault that all the children of Yaruta had been captured, that the rest of the village had been mercilessly killed by the Empire.

Humming tore through the bruised sky as a black Imperial Lambda started its descent. Prisoners and stormtroopers alike lifted their heads to watch as the shuttle’s elegant wings folded up for landing. Veréne had been raised on many ships during her short life and knew instantly that this one was as graceful as it was lethal. Only top-ranking officials rode in those; she watched her younger self shiver as the durasteel ramp smothered the grass. 

Veréne could still remember the sound of his boots on the ramp, of them crunching through the grasses of what she once called home. Sometimes he still appeared in her nightmares, when she awoke suffocating from her sheets, terrified of the fire in his eyes. 

He walked with a parade of Red Guard at his tail, and with his hands clasped firmly behind his back, he surveyed the scene laid out before him and _smiled._

“General Tane, sir, the men are gathered like you asked,” spoke the commanding Stormtrooper. 

The Red Guard fanned out around the General, blasters still held in resting position. Even the Commander, as menacing as he was, stuttered in front of the new arrival. Tane held himself with air of calm, despite the screams that still issued from the town below and the sobbing of both adults and children gathered around him. His eyes... so familiar, yet cold and distant. Their darkness pierced through the children, as if he was musing himself being the mastermind of a great joke.

“And the others?” he casually questioned, staring intently at the crying group of children before him.

“Awaiting your orders, sir.” 

“Get back in line scum!” shouted a Stormtrooper guarding the adults. Tane’s eyes instantly narrowed, mouth in a firm line. 

Heads followed as one of the adult prisoners broke through the huddle mass, running for the hills. The children watched with horror as the Commander waved for his battalion to aim their blasters. Younger Veréne clasped Iscah’s hand harder, too afraid to look away. 

Suddenly General Tane, with a flick of his wrist and a snap of his fingers, had a Red Guard’s blaster rifle in hand. Slowly, he walked past the group of children, past the kneeling group of adults, then brought the scope to his eye. Younger Veréne held even tighter to Iscah’s hand until both sets of fingers bloomed purple; looking down, Veréne could have sworn she saw faint indents of fingernails on top of her own hand. 

Still running, the man was almost over the hillcrest when one shot rang out. A wail, then a thud, and the man could no longer be seen.

The recoil ruffled Tane’s hair, but he smoothed it back as he returned, handing the blaster rifle back to his guard. No one moved a muscle, not even the Commander who still had his hand poised in the air. All eyes were focused on General Tane.

He surveyed his silent spectators, once again smiling, and for a brief moment Veréne believed he saw her. Not her younger self; she thought for the briefest moment that he’d locked eyes with _her._

But this was not real, she knew that now. 

Or was it?

Calmly, as if strolling down a hallway, he came upon the group of children. Younger Iscah shivered, as did Veréne, but she didn’t look away.

“Is this all of them?” he asked, voice barely a whisper.

“Um... yes, sir.” After coming back to his senses, the Commander had unwillingly followed Tane over to the children. Veréne could sense that he too wished to be as far away as possible from this Imperial General. 

“How disappointing.”

“Yaruta is small prefecture, sir. It was difficult to find many children--”

General Tane turned, eyes slowly scrutinizing the Commander from his boots to the top of his helmet. “Did I ask you to defend yourself?”

“Ah, no sir. I was just explaining why-”

“You will know when I have asked you to defend yourself, Commander, believe me. So, until that time arises, and I hope for your sake it never does, my advice would be to remain _silent_.”

Stunned, the Commander dropped his hands awkwardly. The rest of the battalion shifted uncomfortably, but none made a sound. All just watched as the General crouched down in front of two small girls. 

“Tell me your names,” commanded the general in that soft voice. Iscah whimpered, shielding her face in Veréne’s arm. Unable to look away, Veréne spoke with a quavering voice.

“Veréne... Veréne Aro.”

“How pretty. And this must be Iscah Iura. You two are very special little girls, did you know that?”

Veréne shook her head, unable to grasp how this man knew Iscah’s name. But older Veréne knew better; he was gifted with some small amount of Force-manipulation and could glean information easily if he concentrated. 

“Yes, you most certainly are. The Empire has need of people like you, little ones. Don’t you worry, you will be safe and revered by the Supreme Leader himself.” General Tane stood and again faced the Commander.

“Seems as though not all of them are a waste.”

“Sir?” stammered the Commander as Tane turned towards his Red Guard.

“You’ve managed to capture two Force-sensitives Commander. Your achievement will not go unnoticed,” then turning to the other Stormtroopers, he nodded towards the huddled children. “Take them aboard the shuttle for transport to the Destroyer.”

Quickly, they left their positions around the prisoned adults and hurried over to where the children sat in the mud. Veréne watched as she and Iscah were herded towards a shuttle on the other hillcrest, then turned to see only the Commander left.

“General Tane sir?”, he asked tentatively as Tane’s eyes bored into the Commander’s muddied mask. “What about the adults?”

“What about them?” Tane replied, as casually as if inquiring about the next meal he ate.

“Shall I call another transport shuttle for them sir?” the Commander called up to him as the General took one step onto the ramp of his ship.

General Tane actually laughed, the familiarity causing Veréne to step closer towards the man as he boarded the Lambda. 

“My Red Guard will take care of them.”

And like Corellian Hounds, Veréne watched as the Stormtroopers clad in red advanced on the now-shrieking huddle of women and men. As they raised their blasters, Veréne watched the man standing on the ramp of the Imperial Lambda, watched as he smiled when the blasters went off and the screams of dying innocents filled the night. 

As if feeling her glare, General Tane turned his head to where Veréne stood. Although he was about nine meters away, she could tell he was staring at her, that he could see _her_. His smile faltered for only a fraction of a second, then lit up as if seeing an old friend. 

“Aetra Khal...” came his whispered words, though Veréne could hear them clear as if he were standing before her. She clutched her heart suddenly, feeling a sharp pain drive through her with every rhythmic beat. 

“We will meet again,” he purred as the ramp closed, shutting out the world and blanketing it with darkness as it swallowed Veréne up once more.

* * *

Veréne awakened with an electrifying jolt. She hadn’t been aware that her eyes were closed, or that she still clasped Iscah’s tiny hand in her own. But, no, that wasn’t right... She couldn’t feel the warm grip of her friend’s interlocking fingers, nor the cutting strap of her seat on the Imperial cruiser that had borne them away from their wrecked home.

“Iscah…” she said groggily. She tried to peel her eyes open, but they were swollen.

“Nope. Though based on everything you’ve told me, she seems quite the interesting character.” Veréne could hear the smirk in his voice as he continued, “Who knows? Maybe I’ll get the chance to meet her myself one day.”

Those words send a cold shock of dread down Veréne’s spine, sharpening her focus.

Veréne raised her head, arms tingling awake painfully as she shifted them. She felt as though she had landed on the ground after being swallowed by the sky, unable to catch her breath.

“I… I _told_ you?” she asked breathlessly.

Daro barked out a laugh, eyes glinting. “Oh yes, your word vomit was profound and ceaseless as I probed your mind. Interesting backstory you have; is it all true?”

“What’re you talking about?” she hissed.

“You think yourself a perfect little Jedi, and yet you hold a dark secret. I've seen what you’ve hidden in the shadows… What you’ve even tried to hide from yourself.”

Daro circled around her slowly, but his eyes never left her. It couldn’t be that he… he had seen what she’d done? What she had done to her village, what she had done to _Iscah_?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’d like to think we're closer than that, Veréne. I mean, I’ve been inside your mind after all.” He bent down and whispered into her ear, “You can't hide anything from me. Not anymore.”

He stood in front of her once more, and she held his gaze. But the more she stared, the more she realized he was right. She couldn’t hide anything from him. She had nothing else _to_ hide. 

The tears spilled from her eyes.

“You know, we are actually very similar, you and me. We’ve both betrayed the ones we loved for revenge.” He took her face into his hands, almost lovingly Veréne thought. “I understand you better than most. You have a darkness within you, Veréne.” His expression was almost soft when he whispered, “And you know what? _It’s okay_.”

Her lips trembled, and she couldn’t take the grief, the regret any longer. The dams broke, and she was sobbing, restrained to a chair in an enemy ship, letting a lifetime’s worth of grief and guilt flood out of her. A volcano of emotions had erupted, and was draining her of everything, everything that kept her from feeling.

And once she felt it all, she made sure she could never feel it ever again.

“Take it away from me, _please_. I don’t want to hold onto it anymore,” she sobbed.

And then the strangest thing happened

Daro’s previous demeanor was shattered, altered. He had broken through and touched a raw nerve within the Jedi. But there was something just as raw in his own expression, as though her breakdown had awoken certain feelings in him that he hadn’t expected. 

“You know…” he started thoughtfully, almost hesitantly. “Once it’s gone, you can never get it back. You understand that, right?” His tone was uncharacteristically grave, quiet. As though he very much did not want to be overheard. “Think about who are, who you _truly_ are, before you do this. There is no coming back from this, Veréne Aro.”

Was he warning her? Why would this man who had tortured her, brought her to the very brink of her sanity, want to help her _now_?

Veréne said nothing at first, then she spoke slowly.

“I know who I am… And I am tired of pretending to be someone else. I’m tired… just _so_ tired.” She wasn’t crying anymore, but looking straight into Daro’s eyes as she spoke, and she hoped he would remember the deadened look in them for as long as he lived. She hoped she would haunt him until the day _he_ died. It was a small, conciliatory revenge. Her eyes couldn’t contain all the anger, all the hate, all the pain as they bored holes into his very soul. 

If anyone was born to darkness, then it was the woman reborn in front of him. 

He nodded, seeming to accept her words at face value, then sat up. “All right then. It’s time.” 

He moved for the door and pressed a button. Her energy cuffs unlocked themselves, and for a moment she was stunned. She had thought that he was going to kill her for sure; that was what she had been asking for since she’d boarded the ship. To make everything end, to have it all stop. So, she could finally be at peace. But instead, the Inquisitor motioned for her to follow.

Veréne got up slowly, a bit wobbly. She had been in that chair for what felt like years, although it couldn’t have been more than a few months since she’d been captured. Her atrophied limbs were unused to the sudden pressure and movement and she stumbled. She expected to fall flat on her face but, surprisingly, Daro stepped forward and caught her. His grip was firm, but gentle.

 _Leading the old hornker out to the pasture,_ she thought morbidly, laughing a bit to herself.

They walked down an intricate labyrinth of hallways, going deeper and deeper into the ship until finally arriving at a large set of black durasteel doors, the mirror-like shine reflecting her haggard form. Veréne stopped and stared into the doors, looking at herself for the second time since being held prisoner. 

_Is that…_ me _?_

She was thinner, her bones protruding from the thin, pallid skin that stretched across her face and arms. She shuddered to think what her body looked like under her tattered, fraying clothes. Besides being dunked into cold vats of water she hadn’t had a shower, or even seen her unclothed body, since she had last been home.

_Home…_

The thought of home was a painful, angry ache underneath her skin. Her mind flinched away from thoughts of rainy skies, of the small but warm Temple, of sun-gold hair and ocean-blue eyes. She prayed to the Force that Iscah would not try to come back for her; that her friend had given her up for dead. But she knew Iscah would never give up, that she would search for Veréne until the last suns in the galaxy had extinguished. Iscah, ferociously protective and breathtakingly loyal, would spend the rest of her life searching. Veréne cursed her friend’s resilience.

She hoped, desperately, that Iscah would fail. Hoped that for once in her life, Iscah would finally give up on something.

Veréne shook her head, determined to no longer look at the withered reflection in the doors. Then with a slight hissing sound, the doors steadily opened. Red light suffused the hallway, consuming her and Daro. Then a voice from within beckoned them forward.

“So, this is the Jedi. Not quite as impressive as I thought you'd be.”

The room was large, and disturbingly red. Walls, floors, even the ceiling was swathed in a dark scarlet. Praetorian Guards, also drenched in scarlet, outlined the circular room. They guarded the large and roughly hewn stone throne and what sat upon it. 

_What exactly is that_ thing _sitting on the throne?_ Veréne could do nothing but stare at the creature that beckoned them within. 

“Neither are you… whatever you are,” said Veréne, standing lopsided, holding her left arm. The creature sitting before her turned to Daro and laughed. 

“I was warned you had quite the mouth. How intriguing,” he said, suddenly inspecting Veréne with cold, blue eyes. Then he added to Daro, “Excellent work; I shall be sure to send my regards to your father. You are dismissed, Inquisitor Tane.” 

Veréne turned to Daro and stared. 

He glanced once at her, noting the sudden recognition in her eyes. Now she understood where she had heard that laugh before, had seen those dark eyes before. Although the eyes she remembered were surrounded by deeper lines, with graying hair, the resemblance was uncanny: Inquisitor Daro Tane, son of Imperial General Tane. 

But Daro didn’t have time to explain; _And he wouldn't do so_ she thought venomously. Veréne watched him exit the way they came, leaving her to stand alone with the mottled creature on the crude throne. 

“I’m glad to see you are somewhat still intact,” it said to her, breaking her trance. “Even after the number my Inquisitor did on you.”

“Oh, you mean Tane? I thought that was just round one,” said Veréne through clenched, bared teeth. It laughed again, the sound like shattering glass.

A stitch in her side was making it hard for her to breath, let alone stand on her weakened legs. Barely scabbed wounds all across her body had cracked open from moving around so much. Fresh ooze made its way down Veréne’s arms and legs, and she swayed with the difficulty of standing upright.

“You are correct, he was merely the first round. I am, however, the last stop in your little exercise in resistance.” The sneer it gave her sent shivers down Veréne’s spine. “I was told that you would not give up Cal Kestis and his pathetic little Jedi Temple.” The abomination’s hand waved negligently, as if her refusal to give up her home and Master meant nothing. 

“It is no great matter, though. You will give them to me, of your own free will. They will fall with time, as all the Jedi have fallen before them.”

The casual tone of which it spoke of her destroying her home made the darks pits within Veréne’s stomach boil. She had come to this crimson room to die; that was what she wanted, what she’d thought Daro meant when he said there was no coming back. Veréne was under the impression that everything would end, and yet... this _thing_ was toying with her emotions. “What do you want then? Why did you capture me in the first place, if not to find more Jedi?”

It laughed again. “Your mind is so little, so weak! You do not see what lies beyond the light, but that is what is to be expected from a Jedi. I seek an ancient power, awakened not too long ago by a strong Force-user.”

A warm cave filled with an undying light swarmed Veréne’s mind before she understood what it was talking about. “You can’t mean… me?”

“They told me you were witty, but I see now that you are also witless. Come here,” it commanded. 

Veréne spat on the floor, dark blood glistening on the shiny black tiles.

“You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that. So much hope still resides in you, and yet, I see the anger and hatred boiling from within. Now, come here.” One finger waggled at her impatiently and Veréne was pulled forward toward the stone throne, as if caught by an invisible hook.

She snarled in its face, finding some last vestige of strength within herself and began struggling uselessly against the invisible hold. “I’m of no use to you. I don’t have this _ancient power_ you’ve been jabbering on about. Just _end it_ already.”

It stared into her green eyes, only centimeters away from her face. Up close, Veréne could see the lopsided scar that sliced through the center of its forehead, and a deep canyon under an eye socket that made one cheekbone higher than the other. Beady, watery eyes stared back into hers, full of malice, of hate, of a _lust_ …

“You can fool yourself, but not me, child. I see what lies just below the surface, what makes you cowardly and fear that which you do not know. It seeks you out; it has called you home. And I can help you take the offering; I can help you with what you truly desire.”

Veréne had not once looked away from those hateful eyes, rather let her own eyes burn from the fear of blinking than let this _thing_ manipulate her. But what it had said rang true to her very core; her soul yearned for some sort of ending, a _rebirth_. 

“And what would that be?”

It smiled, revealing gruesome, tiny teeth. Veréne could barely disguise her disgust as she continued to stare at the creature, with its lopsided scar and mottled gray flesh.

“Let me show you.”

* * *

What felt like lifetimes later, she lay on the cold black floor, unmoving. Her body was whole, but her mind was broken into tiny pieces.

 _Take me back, back to the torture room please, anything but this_ , she had sobbed as a laugh tore through the crimson room, leaving her feeling more alone than she ever had felt before.

Snoke, the name of the terrifying creature, had entered her mind and broken down her walls, memory by memory. He had chipped away at her for hours, days, months… she wasn’t sure if time even existed outside of her mind.

As she had been left there in the darkness, she had become used to its quiet embrace. In the darkness, she was safe; in the darkness, she didn’t hurt. After a while, she had stopped feeling much of _anything._ And when she couldn’t handle it anymore, could no longer deny the horrible emptiness sitting within her like a stone, she’d forced to use what remained to survive.

She had called upon the only power she had left in her, the one thing she never wanted to name. With her anger, her hatred, she had pushed Snoke out of her mind, feeling herself splintering even further as she did so.

She had awoken on the black floor, covered in more blood from her opening wounds as she writhed around. She couldn’t see black anymore, her world consisting of nothing but the red of the room. And a rasping voice not too far away…

“Good, good! You have finally embraced the dark side, my child! Feel its power coursing through your veins!”

She slowly pushed herself onto her hands and knees, arms shaking and chest heaving raggedly with each breath. As she did, she noticed a woman staring back at her from the shiny black floor and almost cried out from shock.

It was the woman from the cave, the woman who had warned Veréne of her fate. _End it,_ she had said. But Veréne hadn’t been able to do it; she was too much of a coward.

And now her choices stared back at her, beaten and lonely and full of raw _anger._

She reached up a hand to touch her brittle hair. Torturing her endlessly without mercy had drained her once dark brown hair glistening with life to silver and white strands, like a dried bone stripped of all flesh and blood. Dampened with sweat and blood, she pushed the white strands from her face with a hollow snarl.

“Rise, my dark disciple! Come forth and lay claim to your title.”

She rose to her feet and saw that Daro now stood before the steps leading up to Snoke’s throne, hands clasped, in an eerily familiar fashion, firmly behind his back. Stepping up towards the stone throne, she caught a passing whisper from the Inquisitor that sent chills down her spine.

“I like your new hair.”

She turned to stare at his smirking face, which was instantly wiped clean underneath her steely glance. But she never missed a step, kept moving forward to the throne. Her heart was beating wildly, from fear or from excitement, she couldn’t be sure. No smirk from Daro nor triumphant sneer from Snoke could make her turn back now, not when she had come this far. 

Giving in was the easy part; she had felt the resistance in her die long ago as her insides were being torn to shreds. The darkness would keep her safe and warm; it had shown her there were powers beyond what light could offer, what peace could offer. There never was, nor could there ever be, peace for her; she had been tortured long before Daro had cut into her skin or Snoke had unraveled her mind.

Finally standing before the throne, she stepped forward, and took the lightsaber in the outstretched hand. As she did, Snoke clutched her wrist with his decaying flesh, so tightly her old self might have cried out. Instead, she barely blinked, vowing that if he ever touched her again, she would stab him through the middle.

“I no longer see the fear, the weakness, in your eyes: Veréne Aro is dead.”

The words hit her harder than she thought they would. She hadn’t thought about it the entire time her mind was being sliced open, but Veréne was indeed gone. She had sacrificed herself, given herself up to the slaughter, let herself be taken apart inch by inch, in order to save what little bit of humanity she had left. But in the end, it hadn’t mattered, only the darkness remained.

She wasn’t sure Veréne had counted on _that_ happening. 

But like Daro said: she couldn’t go back. She was no longer the same person; she could never be the same person she had once been. 

Something shifted in the back of her mind, the thought that she was forgetting something important. She tried reaching out to the Bond that had laid strong and true between her and Iscah nearly all their lives; the Bond she had shrouded in darkness to protect the person she had once loved so dearly. But now, that Bond was gone, too. Smothered by a hungrier, deeper darkness than the one Veréne had used to conceal it. With Veréne’s death, the fraying Bond seemed to have been snuffed out entirely. 

How could it have survived, when the person it was connected to was _gone_ , disappeared into oblivion?

She knelt on her knees, Snoke still clutching her wrist, the skin under his fingers turning purple.

“In her place,” he continued, voice rising with anticipation, “a new and stronger Sith was born, and she whispered her name to me from the dark…”

_Aetra Khal…_

_End it._

“Rise, Aetra Khal, my new dark disciple.”

Aetra stepped back, lightsaber in her open palm. It felt heavy, _wrong_ , in her hand as if it was disgusted with her for what she had done. But that was ridiculous. It was a lightsaber, not a living creature.

_Kyber crystals have an energy of their own; they are, after all, a potent conduit for the Force. Never underestimate the power of your saber, Veréne._

Aetra shook off the memory of her old Master, of a life long lost. She would not let the feelings of her old saber keep her from her path forward.

Placing her thumb on the ignition button, she pressed down firmly. The yellow blade roared to life, but sputtered, almost cackling with static energy. Then, slowly, she saw the yellow crystal from the chamber swirl with red until it was completely enveloped in a crimson glow. Her blade followed suit; the yellow consumed by the crimson until her lightsaber reflected the red of the room.

“The turning of the lightsaber; you are truly one of the Sith now,” said Snoke, but Aetra wasn’t paying attention. 

There was a pit in her heart that burned with the devastation of a dying star, a power that she had never felt before. Her blade was now aligned with her hate, her anger, and her face erupted into an unbidden smile.

Salvation coursed through her veins, a type of which she hadn’t felt for months, for years. Possibly ever.

This. _This_ is what she’d wanted all along.

_Power._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains torture, blood/gore, injury, descriptions of mutilation/maiming, mental breaks, and mental manipulation.


	4. Find Her or Die Trying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the chapter delay on this one, lovely readers! I, WarAndPoetry, agonized far too long over it. Poor firstorder_scum had to suffer through all my whining and indecisiveness, alas. But I hope you enjoy Iscah's antics! I wish I could say it's gonna get better for her from here, but... well. She'll be fiiiiiiiine. Probably. Maybe. On the bright side! Have fun with Mads, who has quickly become one of my fav OCs.
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading! And a special thanks to all who have given kudos, comments, and bookmarks! You guys totally rock! <3
> 
> See end of chapter notes for chapter-specific warnings!
> 
> And here's your chapter playlist link, for best-quality feels:  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5ABfu80TmMJ0MEmiWf7GZD?si=9gUBf2BJS2-elfVnxSHrfQ

**23 ABY**

Truth be told, Iscah didn’t quite know where to start once she’d set off on her journey.

Of course, she’d gone back to the last place she and Veréne had been together. But there were no signs of the Imperial-class Destroyer. A futile, and very desperate, attempt at finding the ship’s signature left her shrugging off the nagging hopelessness that gripped her heart. It had been hours and hours and _hours_ since the Destroyer had been there, and any trail they might have left had long since gone cold. Iscah had even gone back to the planet M896, had lowered herself with trepidation into the cave that Veréne had fallen into. There was nothing on the planet that could point her in the right direction.

She didn’t know what she’d expected, but even so she was bitterly disappointed.

Iscah sighed and checked her star maps. There weren’t many habitable planets nearby, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. The Destroyer had been _huge_ ; it would’ve been more than capable of traveling hundreds of parsecs by now, traversing multiple systems without stopping. Still, she’d have to start somewhere. She began reading through the starmaps of nearest planets within the system, cataloguing which ones might be Empire-sympathetic, or at least unwilling to stand up to them. That was where, hopefully, she’d find Veréne.

There weren’t that many in the former category, but the latter category was alarmingly large.

Iscah tried to open her mind to the Force, tried to let it guide her decision as to where she was supposed to go. But she was still too addled and jumpy, the loss of Veréne still fresh in her mind. The odd, cold, foggy nothingness that had overtaken their Bond made Iscah flinch anytime she delved too deep within herself. Like an underwater cave that lay deep under the ocean, pulling all that got too near within it.

After several long, frustrated moments Iscah finally picked a planet nearly at random. There wasn’t anything about it that stood out from the others in terms of her needs, but she needed to do _something_. The more time she wasted the harder it would be to find Veréne.

She’d wasted enough time as it was.

The planet of Sesbeth wasn’t exactly a reputable one, but perhaps that would work in her favor. After all, wouldn’t it make sense for there to be Empire spies and sympathizers lurking on a black-marketing, nefarious dealings, backwater planet? It was impatience and desperation that drove Iscah to such reasoning, but at this point she had nothing else to go on.

Once Iscah managed to navigate her small ship to the ports, she was already second-guessing herself. The ship ports, as expected, were as seamy as anything she’d seen. _That_ wasn’t surprising to her at all. But what was truly disconcerting was the way people seemed to stare at her once she’d docked her ship and made her way to the payment station. She wasn’t sure if it was because she actually stuck out, or if she was noticing it so acutely because she was alone for the first time.

The Devaronian who took her payment in exchange for the relatively safe docking of her ship sneered as she handed over some credits. _So this is how it’s going to be_ , she thought bitterly.

Still, she was a Jedi. This wasn’t her first time off-planet, nor was she completely naïve to the ways of the galaxy. The tall, dirty buildings didn’t frighten her, nor did the shady people with suspicious glaring glances, nor even the convoluted high-speed air traffic that made one dizzy if stared at for too long. Iscah was assured—as assured as she ever was, at least—in her ability to take care of herself.

What _did_ frighten her was the sudden and staggering realization of how big a haystack she was searching and how small the needle.

Squaring her shoulders, Iscah made her way into the port city. It wouldn’t matter in the end. She’d search every planet in the galaxy, follow any trail into the belly of the Empire itself in order to find Veréne. One day, she promised herself, they would be together again. They would be together, and Iscah would share all the adventures it had taken her to get to that moment.

Until then, she told herself, the size of the search didn’t matter.

So off Iscah went, hood drawn up over her head and hands stuffed into the pockets of her robe. She flowed through the crowded, claustrophobic foot traffic as quick as a fish in a stream, avoiding those that exuded malicious energy. Once more she thanked the Force for her Jedi training: she slipped unseen through multiple groups of bounty hunters and spice runners without drawing much attention.

Well, _more_ attention, at least, than she’d been drawing since she’d docked her ship.

_If I were Imperial scum, where would I hide in a place like this?_

The answer was obvious: dive bars. The favorite haven of the galaxy’s most dastardly, after all.

She needed to search each one until she picked up a trail, and if the bars didn’t yield the results she wanted, she’d try any place that people might gather for intel or anonymity: brothels, casinos, clubs, the refineries. She’d work her way across the whole planet and then if _that_ didn’t help… well, she’d repeat the process across as many planets and systems as it took.

_‘You’re such a stubborn nerf head,’ Veréne said with mock disgust, laughing when Iscah shoved her shoulder with her own._

Iscah shook her head at the memory and gritted her teeth. _You’ll be glad for my stubbornness when I get you back_ , she promised her friend silently, _and then we’ll see who the nerf head is_.

Iscah was glad for her own stubbornness, because otherwise she might not have had the fortitude to enter the first bar she found. It was unmarked, the durasteel door rusting and disgustingly dirty. But the people loitering outside of it, several of them passed out cold with blue milk dribbling down their chins, told Iscah exactly what kind of place this was. 

Iscah slowed as she approached, squaring her shoulders both physically and mentally as she stopped just outside the threshold. A group of three—two Rodian males and a female Twi’lek—leered at her as the rusty door laboriously slid open. She didn’t leer back, didn’t do anything other than glance at them out of the corner of her eye. Iscah wasn’t here to pick fights, after all, and despite her vigilance roaming the streets, eyes narrowed pointedly in her direction.

But as she descended the hovering stairs into the bar itself, Iscah realized lying low was going to be much harder said than done.

Activity didn’t exactly skid to a halt when she entered, but it was a near thing. All eyes zeroed in on the young Jedi, and although Iscah was relatively confident in her abilities she was suddenly _very_ aware of her solitariness. Still, she did her best not to show it. Head still covered but chin held high, she made her way across the room and ignored the way eyes grazed her clean robes and mouths whispered in hushed tones as she passed.

Ignoring the humming voices around her, Iscah chanced a glimpse about her. Nearly everything in the bar was durasteel. Iscah might have thought it was to keep it cleaner, but it was very evident that the bar hadn’t been cleaned. _Ever_. The only thing that wasn’t dirty and rusted durasteel, was the bar top. It was, somehow, filthier than the rest of the bar; transperisteel so grubby that it could no longer be seen through. Iscah, with no small amount of disgust, made the grimy bar her goal as she picked her way across the surprisingly large establishment.

Out of nowhere, her progress was inhibited by the appearance of two tall, intimidating Zabraks.

Iscah halted, looking up at her accosters serenely. Jedi training had given her the ability to be calm in almost any situation, and while she didn’t exactly _feel_ calm at the moment, she was at least able to project an air of unbothered curiosity at this unexpected turn of events.

“Hello there,” she greeted, voice low and untroubled.

“What are you supposed to be, a Jedi or something?” the one on the left asked sarcastically, his teeth bared in a sneer.

Iscah continued to smile as the Force shifted in warning. “Or something. Can I help you gentlemen?”

When neither of them answered her, Iscah’s smile slowly slid off her face. She wasn’t sure if they were in her way because they had a specific purpose in mind, or if they’d just pegged her as an easy target. Iscah was in no mood for a fight, although she anticipated one. Veréne’s usual response, somewhat aggressive and very much effective, popped into Iscah’s head. She would have definitely started a fight, the kind of brawl that Iscah would’ve had to drag her out of. But she wasn't there, and a feeling of loneliness doused Iscah like cold sheets of rain. 

The keen absence of her friend, coupled with the way the Zabraks were looking at her, made Iscah feel uncharacteristically bristly.

_‘Oi, what the kriff do you think you’re staring at?’_

_‘_ Veréne _. Low profile, remember?’_

 _Veréne didn’t turn her attention from the group of Kel Dorians who’d been eyeing their ship. ‘I’ll keep a low profile when they_ mind their own fucking business _!’_

_Iscah rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the snort of laughter that escaped her when the group hurriedly left the docking station._

_‘You’re impossible, you know that?’ she said, tossing Veréne’s pack at her._

_Veréne caught it without even looking at her. ‘But you love me anyway.’_

_Iscah grabbed her own pack, smiled to herself. ‘Yeah.’_

She squared her shoulders, hood still hanging over her head, and put as much authority into her voice as she could muster, “If I can’t help you with something, then kindly get the fuck out of my way.”

Before either of them could respond, someone off to the side laughed. Iscah made to turn towards the voice when the Force shifted around her in warning. She felt someone tug the back of her hood, felt it fall away from her face. Iscah spun around, disgruntled but not yet alarmed, and found herself face-to-face with a Keshiri man dressed in foppish finery, his appraising eyes searching every inch of her.

“Pretty little thing, aren’t you?” he commented finally.

Iscah, salvaging her pride, knew this was a waste of her time. She needed _information_. “You’re not my type.”

 _‘Trust me, you are_ definitely _not her type,’ Veréne laughed, but there was a cutting edge to it that warned the male Mirialan against making a scene._

 _Once he’d left, Iscah sank lower in her seat, pulling her hood further over her face. ‘_ Veréeeeeene… _’_

 _Veréne laughed again, but it was less sharp this time. She elbowed her friend and took another sip of her drink. ‘What? It’s the truth. He really isn’t your type_ at all _.’_

 _‘Can we just finish up here and_ go _?’_

 _Veréne cast a look around the seedy bar, still looking for the informant friend of Mads’ they were supposed to meet. ‘Now, that Kiffar over there…_ She’s _more your type.” Veréne waggled her eyebrows at Iscah suggestively, making her choke on her own drink. “Want me to go over and say hi?’_

_‘Veréne!!’_

The Keshiri grinned, and the way he looked Iscah over made her lip curl. “That’s too bad. But I bet I know a lot of people who would pay a pretty credit to get their hands on a wannabe Jedi.”

Something in Iscah stilled. Was the man talking about the remnants of the Empire? If so, maybe Iscah could-

“Maybe someone in the Outer Rim markets would be more to your tastes, hm? Then again, it won’t really matter what you want in the end, will it?”

Markets?

 _Ah,_ came the disgusted thought, her hand twitching in the direction of her lightsaber, _slaver._

Such things had been outlawed in the days of the Galactic Republic, of course, and even the Empire had cracked down on the practice (although, really, their recruitment practices hadn’t been much different than slavery in the end). But there would always be people who disregarded the autonomy of others in favor of money.

A sharp, booming laugh sounded from behind Iscah, but this time the sound didn’t fill her with irritation or apprehension.

_Is that-_

Footsteps, and then Iscah felt a presence stop behind her. “That ‘pretty little thing’ could kill you with her hands cuffed, Roth,” the newcomer drawled, amusement so thick in his voice she could’ve cut it with her saber. “I wouldn’t try anything, were I you.” A hand came up to rest on Iscah’s shoulder and she relaxed under it without thinking. “Actually, on second thought, go ahead and try it. I’m not the only one here who would just _love_ to see someone wipe the floor with you.”

The Keshiri growled, but not nearly as menacingly as his Zabrak bodyguards. “Why don’t _you_ give it a try, Phrixus?”

The hand on her shoulder slid away, and Iscah felt a mounting tension in the air. They were attracting _way_ too much attention and Iscah had neither the time or the patience to get in this kind of fight. No one in the bar was even pretending to be doing anything other than watching them now.

Iscah stepped forward, reaching into the swirling Force around her to draw upon her calmness and control. She lifted her hand just slightly and moved it as inconspicuously as possible. “You three were just approaching me because you wanted to turn your lives around.”

For a brief, stomach-churning moment Iscah thought that it hadn’t worked. She’d never really practiced Force manipulation before, didn’t enjoy overriding another being’s will like that. But then, she felt it. The shift in the Force, the bleeding away of the men’s aggression that gave way to suggestibility.

“We… We really want to turn our lives around.”

Iscah smiled. “You should turn yourselves in to the New Republic. They’ll help you sort everything out.”

“We’ll go to the New Republic so they can sort us out.”

 _Good enough_ , Iscah thought with a shrug. “You’re going to pilot yourselves straight to the nearest New Republic base and tell them about every single thing you’ve done, every single person you’ve taken.”

“We’re… We’re going to tell them everything.”

The glazed looks were getting more and more unfocused, and so Iscah released her hold on them. She, and the rest of the bar, watched as the three grabbed their things and headed out of the bar without another word. Silence descended over the room.

Then, another booming laugh and the hand was back again, clapping her shoulder heartily. “Well, then, does anyone else have any issues with my young friend here?”

As if it was a practiced action, the entirety of the bar turned back to their own varying businesses without any further word or action. Iscah looked around for a moment, double-checking that no one else was going to pop up and cause issues.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” she sighed.

“Nah, probably not, but it was funny as hell to watch. And those guys definitely deserved it.”

“I don’t even know if it’ll hold them all the way to a New Republic base.”

“Have a little faith in yourself, Droplet.”

Iscah turned to face Mads Phrixus, smuggler extraordinaire, a brow rising at the old cutesy nickname that hadn’t been cute to begin with. “That’s usually Master Cal’s line.”

He laughed, his dark, handsome face splitting into a grin. “Well, I was bound to pick something up from him eventually. Spent enough time listening to him lecturing you and Sparks, that’s for sure.”

The mention of Veréne sobered her instantly. “Mads…”

Her tone sobered him, too. He put both hands on her shoulders. “I know.”

“How-”

“Cal commed me. I’ve been keeping my eyes and ears open.” Mads smiled again, but it was tinged with sadness this time. “This is a big thing you’re undertaking, Droplet. Especially on your own.”

Iscah’s heart clenched. “If you’re going to tell me I shouldn’t do this, then you’d better-”

Mads released one of her shoulders, his hand patting the top of her head before resting there instead. Iscah was far too old—not too tall though, unfortunately; Mads had almost twenty centimeters on her—for it to be anything other than awkward. “Droplet, I wouldn’t bet against you finding Sparks for anything.”

The words should’ve filled her with pride, but instead they weighed Iscah down.

“Why are you here then, Mads?”

At that, he grinned his usual grin again. He stepped forward, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and pulling her back towards the bar’s exit before she could protest. “Because you, Droplet, desperately need some guidance. And not the Jedi kind of guidance, either.”

***

“Really, though. A _bar_ in _Sesbeth_ , of all places? What were you expecting to find, stormtroopers guarding a secret entrance to an Imperial hideout?”

Iscah flushed, as she followed after him closely through the streets of the dank port city. He seemed to know his way around, moving them away from the more crowded streets and through alleyways Iscah wouldn’t have thought to try alone. Every once in a while, he would glance over his shoulder to make sure she was still there. Iscah might have protested being looked out for like she was a child, except that Mads had a way about him that eased the sting of such treatment. He treated _everyone_ casually, as far as Iscah could tell.

It helped that she’d known him almost as long as she’d known Master Cal.

Mads Phrixus was a very dark, tall, broad-shouldered man with a quick smile and flashing eyes. He was much the same now as he had been ten years ago—same old red leather jacket, same old-fashioned blaster, same old Kyber crystal necklace from one of Cal’s old sabers—although the gold canines were new. It often seemed like he changed his hairstyle every time she saw him; today it was close-shaven, slightly longer on the top than the sides. 

Iscah wasn’t sure how he and Cal had met, but by the time Cal Kestis had found himself on Mads’ landing pad with two little girls in tow they had been old acquaintances. She could remember how awkward he had been around her and Veréne, unable to relate to the children but still determined to try for Cal’s sake. As quick-fingered then as he was now, he’d tried to entertain them with little ‘magic’ tricks and sleight of hand, only to be completely busted by Veréne within minutes of each trick.

He was called a smuggler, even called himself that, but Iscah knew that couldn’t be further from the truth. Or, rather, it couldn’t cover the entire truth. He’d earned that designation during the reign of the Empire, when he’d been an absolute pain in the ass to every Moff he’d come across. He’d smuggled supplies to the people most bogged-down by the Empire, he’d smuggled children away from their conscription centers, he’d smuggled information to the Rebel Alliance. Mads Phrixus was clever, quick-thinking, a damn good pilot, and he’d been using that to help those in need since well before Iscah and Veréne had been born.

Master Cal trusted him with his life. More importantly, he trusted him with the location of Temple Ealhhere—whose planet Mads had been the one to find for them—and with the knowledge of his Padawans. It was that knowledge, the knowledge that he was a good man who was trusted by another good man, that made Iscah trust him so implicitly now.

Even if he tended to still treat her like a kid at times.

“This isn’t some holo program, Droplet. The bad guys aren’t going to be that obvious. There might not be a formal Empire anymore, but don’t think for one moment that the remaining ex-Imps are any less dangerous. There’re fewer of them now, but that’s just made them more _desperate_.”

He led them across a slightly better-lit square than the ones they’d passed before, and Iscah assumed they were passing a market of some kind. Mads grabbed her upper arm when she slowed to take in her surroundings, wrapping an arm back around her shoulders and hurrying her along before she could draw attention to herself.

“They’re going to be damn good at hiding their tracks. You’re not going to find them by… what? Hitting up dive bars and brothels and casinos? Was that the plan?”

Iscah’s already flushed face turned bright red. That had been _exactly_ the plan. Mads looked down and caught the red sneaking its way across her face and down her neck. He stopped them in another alley, this one at least blessedly empty, and fixed her with a Look.

“ _Really_?”

Iscah bit off the groan of frustration that wanted to make its way out of her. “Yes! Is that what you want me to say? Yes, I was going to check every seedy place I could think of.”

“Droplet-”

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Mads!” she cried out, finally admitting out loud what she hadn’t been able to say to Master Cal. “I don’t know how to do this. This isn’t… it’s not the same as a mission from the Temple. I have _nothing_ to go off of. And I’m…”

 _Alone_.

 _Scared_.

_Completely lost._

Mads’ look of incredulousness softened. “Hey,” he said, hands gripping Iscah’s upper arms. “I’m not saying you’re stupid for doing it. I am saying you need to be smarter about how you look for her.” He released one of her arms to lift her chin up so she had to look at him. “You don’t have _nothing_ to go off of, either. And you’re not alone.”

Iscah felt the question rise, but he was already pulling her after him again.

“I said I’d help you, didn’t I? Harassing Imp scum is my _specialty_.”

***

Iscah looked dubiously at the pile of clothes that had just been stuffed unceremoniously into her arms. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing now?”

“Nothing. If you want to look like a baby Jedi wandering around in places she has no business being in.”

Iscah huffed. “Mads, I am a twenty-year-old woman. I have been a Knight for over a year. I am most certainly _not_ a-”

Mads shoved her towards the privacy divider he had pulled out in the back of the ship. “You look like an easy target. A signal declaring ‘look at me! I’m a Jedi!’ to everyone with eyes.”

“I _am_ a Jedi.”

“But you don’t need to be advertising that,” Mads said, pulling the divider between them and turning his back to her. “If you’re going to be smart about this, and you _are_ going to be smart about this, you’re going to have to fly under the radar a bit more than that.”

He’d started harping on her clothing as soon as they’d reached his ship, which had been docked in some kind of private docking station. It was a small ship, built for speed and stealth more than it was for carrying things. It wasn’t one of the typical cargo freighters Iscah usually associated with Mads. This one clearly wasn’t for smuggling. It could hold a few people comfortably, but it certainly wasn’t made for transport.

Iscah laid out the clothing he had given her. Dark, nondescript, the kind that wouldn’t draw any more attention to her than she drew to herself. She hesitated for a long moment, only stripping off her boots and robe when she heard Mads beginning to tap his foot impatiently. It felt… strange, to need to change out from her Jedi clothing. It wasn’t like she wore traditional Jedi garb—she preferred blues and greys and cooler colors to the typical warm brown tones her Master sometimes still wore, and no one on Iulia wore the old style of Jedi robes—but it was still _her_ Jedi garb. The clothes didn’t make the Jedi, obviously, but as she pulled on the darker tunic and jacket that Mads had given her she couldn’t help but feel like she was donning a costume.

“I don’t see what’s so bad about some people being able to figure out I’m a Jedi,” she commented, shoving her feet into the steel-toed boots and wrinkling her nose at how heavy they felt. “Wouldn’t that attract the attention of those Imperial remnants? I _want_ that.”

“You really, really don’t.”

Iscah shoved the divider aside, hands going to her hips as Mads turned to examine her. He nodded approvingly before he nodded to the lightsaber she held in her hand.

“You’re going to want to conceal that.”

“I need to be able to reach it, Mads.”

Mads nodded, producing a shoulder holster from the same bag the clothes she was wearing came from. “Here. It’s meant for a blaster, but it should work just as well for your little laser sword.”

“ _Mads-_ ”

He grinned toothily. “Figures you’d be a stick in the mud about that too. Cal sure is.”

Iscah rolled her eyes, shrugging off the jacket so she could fasten the holster’s harness around her torso. “I wonder why.”

Mads would no doubt say that his irreverence was part of his charm. Iscah would disagree, but secretly she knew that Cal thought so as well.

_‘Hey, do you think Mads and Cal have ever… y’know…’_

_‘_ Ewwww _, Veréne!!’_

_‘Bet they have,’ she continued through her own giggles at her friend’s expense. ‘That’s why Cal always looks so relaxed when Mads comes to visit.’_

_‘Mental images, gross!’ Iscah exclaimed, shoving her friend who absolutely snorted with glee. ‘That’s our Master you’re talking about,_ ew _!’_

_Veréne’s laughter completely drowned out Iscah’s scandalized shrieks._

Once she’d secured her saber in the holster, she looked back at Mads expectantly. Mads nodded again, apparently completely satisfied this time.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to get the Empire’s attention? The same faction that took Veréne might come for me.”

Mads sighed. “Okay. Okay, let’s go over it. So, you go out there, declaring yourself a Jedi for all the galaxy to see.” He rolled his eyes at the image. “You’ll get Imp eyes on you, that’s for sure. But if you think for a second that that’s the _only_ attention you’ll be drawing to yourself, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“I-”

“So now you have to fend off bounty hunters and slavers and whatever other gang decides they want a piece of Jedi for themselves. In addition to any Empire remnant that thinks itself ballsy enough to handle the capture of a fully-trained Jedi.”

Iscah’s lips thinned but Mads continued.

“So somehow you manage to keep everyone else off your tail, but then there’s the Imperials to deal with. There aren’t many pieces and remnants of the Empire left, but there are enough, Droplet. Getting the attention of just one would be dangerous. But all of them? Even if you managed to evade capture by the first few, they’d wear you down eventually.

“So, you get yourself captured. Maybe you’re thinking that would help in the long run, but it won’t. Not all the different bits and pieces that remain of the Empire are playing nicely with each other. There’s no guarantee that the one that finally captures you will be the same one that took Sparks. And what then? Are you going to be able to fight your way out of their hold? How many times are you going to be able to do that?”

He turned, going back to the cockpit, and Iscah followed him mutely.

“But say that you _do_ get yourself caught by the right bit of Empire,” he began, turning back to Iscah with the gravest expression she’d ever seen him wear. “You said they were supposedly after Sparks _specifically_ , right?”

With a pained look, Iscah nodded.

“That means that they are _hunting Jedi_ ,” he bit out, and the tightening around his eyes and mouth told Iscah how scared he was of that fact. He cared for Cal, after all, and for Cal’s little band of Padawans and younglings. Iscah knew Mads worked _hard_ to keep prying eyes and ears as far away from them as possible. “If an Empire remnant is strong enough, well-organized enough, in possession of enough resources to do that… Well, that means they’re head and shoulders above the rest of the Imps in terms of vying for power.

“Do you really think a group with that kind of structure is going to get their hands on you and keep you in the same place they’re keeping your friend? That they’ll just toss you in a cell together and say ‘have fun catching up! Hope you don’t plan an escape or anything!’?”

Iscah didn’t answer but Mads didn’t need her to.

“They will keep you _alone_ , Droplet, and they will _torture_ you until they get whatever it is they want from you. And even if you’re on the same damn destroyer as your friend, you’ll never see her until they’re good and _ready_ for you to see her.”

Iscah flinched, the thought of that being what Veréne was facing even now sending a jolt of dread through her so powerful that she felt her knees weaken. She flopped back into the copilot seat, rubbing a hand across her face.

 _…Just hang on, Veréne. Please hang on,_ she sent into the abyss that covered their Bond.

After a long moment of silence, Iscah looked up at Mads and steeled herself in determination. “So tell me how to go about finding her. Because I _will_ find her, Mads. No matter what it takes.”

Mads nodded, as though he hadn’t expected her to say anything different. “Like I said, Droplet, I wouldn’t bet against you finding her. I’ve never met anyone more stubborn than the two of you. Odds don’t factor into something like that, in my experience.” He offered her a half-smile. “Your Master would say it was the will of the Force or something like that.

“You’re going to find her, but like I said you’re going to have to be smarter than just careening yourself across the galaxy. So, _think_. What do the people who took Sparks want?”

A frustrated sound escaped Iscah. “I don’t _know_.”

Mads watched her expectantly, waiting. Iscah rested her elbows on the dashboard, holding her head in her hands, and _thought_.

They’d come for Veréne. They wanted the Jedi, or at least they wanted Force-sensitives. But as far as Iscah knew, there were only two, very small groups of Jedi left. One, Cal’s Temple on Iulia, was so well-hidden and unknown that only one person that didn’t inhabit the planet knew where it was. The other, belonging to the legendary Luke Skywalker, had the full support and protection of the New Republic and was therefore practically untouchable.

So how were they searching for Jedi to pick off?

Iscah’s eyes widened.

 _That cave in the temple… It just looked like a regular cave to me, but Veréne… She said it_ Called _to her._

“They’re looking for things that are connected to the Force,” Iscah said, her head shooting up to stare at Mads. “Temples, artifacts, scrolls… Supposedly they’re scattered all across the galaxy. And if a piece of the Empire is searching for Jedi…”

“…Then a good place for them to start would be the places a lone Jedi might go looking for answers,” Mads finished, smiling grimly at Iscah.

Iscah returned it with a grim smile of her own. “Then that’s where I might find them.”

***

“Are you sure you want to give me your ship?”

“Why’d you think I brought it, Droplet? You need speed, you need stealth, and this baby will give you both in spades.”

She’d tried to protest when he’d first told her to take his ship on her search and let him return her ship to the Temple. She knew how to use the Temple ships, for one, and giving someone a whole _ship_ seemed like a bit… much. But Mads had reasoned with her the necessity of such a thing.

It wasn’t just speed and stealth she needed. She was going to be chasing leads across the galaxy, clashing with the Empire at every turn. It was best that she had nothing with her that was associated with the Temple. Not that her ship necessarily had anything on it that would associate it with Iulia, but just in case…

Neither of them had said it, but the sentiment was there all the same: if she got herself captured, she’d need to be as unassociated with Iulia as possible. The only things she carried with her from her time on Iulia were her lightsaber, and the bright blue kyber crystal that hung around her neck on a leather cord underneath her clothing.

She resisted the urge to touch it where it rested against her chest, her heart going out to the owner of its yellow twin.

“Remember,” Mads said as they went through their ship check and he showed her where all the supplies were, “keep your comms open. I’ll be keeping tabs on you, Droplet. And if I hear anything, I’ll pass it onto you.” He passed her the bags they’d gotten from her ship. “I’ll let Cal know what’s going on, don’t worry. He’ll want to keep in contact with you too. And I’m not his only source of info when it comes to Jedi stuff. He might hear something if I don’t.”

Iscah nodded, knowing better than to protest them wanting to keep an eye on her. It wouldn’t stop her from doing what she needed to do, and it would make them feel better. Besides, their help would be needed. It wasn’t as though old Jedi artifacts and Temples were exactly easy to come by. The Empire had destroyed most of them during its reign of terror.

It was going to be hard, Iscah knew, but not impossible.

 _Hope. Always hope_ , she reminded herself.

She followed Mads down the ramp and out of the ship. He stopped just outside of it, hands on his hips as he surveyed both the ship and the girl. Iscah waited with as much patience as she could muster, sensing his apprehension and knowing he was trying to find a way to say something delicately.

When he didn’t just come out with it, Iscah sighed. “Come on, Mads. Nothing you can say is going to surprise me at this rate.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Droplet… Have you given any thought to what’s at the end of this trail?”

Iscah’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Well, yeah. _Veréne_ is at the end of the trail.”

Mads hesitated, and then, “That’s true. But you have to know… It could be more complicated than that.

“They say the Empire doesn’t take prisoners, right? Everyone knows that. Well, Droplet, I can tell you flat out that’s a lie.” He bared his teeth, and Iscah watched as his gaze turned inward, no doubt remembering when he’d once had to smuggle people out from under the very nose of the Empire itself. “It’s just that most of their prisoners never made it out. And those that did…

“They were never the same again, Droplet. Tortured within an inch of their life, taken apart so badly most of them never recovered.”

Iscah’s inward hiss of breath jogged him out of his memories. He fixed her with a stern but empathetic Look.

“I don’t doubt that you’re going to find her, but you need to consider that you might not find her alive. Or that, if you do find her alive, she might not be the same person she was.”

Those words struck such an ominous chord in Iscah’s heart that she couldn’t say anything for many long, silent moments. Something moved in the Force, like a creature beginning to rise from the depths of a pitch-black lake.

What _would_ she do if Veréne died (though her mind still stubbornly refused to accept that as a possibility)? If she found Veréne and she was no longer the same woman who had sacrificed herself to save Iscah?

The answer: It wouldn’t matter.

“She’s not dead,” Iscah said, surprised by the strength of her own voice. “I would feel it if she had died. And if she’s not dead yet I don’t think they’re going to just kill her on a whim. They want her for a _reason_.” She _had_ to believe that because the alternative was completely unthinkable for her. “And it doesn’t matter what’s happened to her. No matter what, she’ll always be Veréne. Even if she changes, she’ll _still_ be Veréne. Nothing will stop me from getting her back. I l-”

Even though she’d cut herself off, Mads nodded with a knowing look in his eyes. “I know. And I believe you.”

He stepped forward and pulled her into a massive hug. Iscah stiffened for just a moment, wide-eyed, before she relaxed into it, returned it. Mads had always given the best hugs, after all, and Iscah wanted that moment of comfort before she, finally, started her task in earnest. She buried her face against the old leather of his jacket, breathed in the smell of it.

Mads squeezed her once, making Iscah squeak, before he released her and held her at arm’s length. “You have a good, strong heart, Iscah Iura. It makes other people feel strong, too. If anyone can do the impossible, can find Veréne and save her, it’s you.” He cupped her face with one hand, held her eyes carefully. “Just make sure you look out for that strong heart of yours, kiddo. You matter, too.”

Iscah nodded, but her mind was already turning to her search. She stepped away from Mads, went to the ramp and boarded the ship.

She turned back once, one hand hovering over the controls to raise the ramp, and lifted a hand in farewell. “Thank you, Mads. Really.” Then, a mischievous spark entered her voice. “You know, I’m sure Master Cal wouldn’t mind if you stayed on Iulia for a little bit. He could probably do with a _distraction_.”

Mads looked floored for a moment before one of his signature booming laughs escaped him. “I knew Sparks wasn’t the only one with cheek. Get out of here, Droplet. Go find your friend and rescue her. Who knows, she might need her own _distraction_ , after all of this.”

Iscah flushed and was dealt another laugh before she closed the ship. Her cheeks were still burning by the time she got to the cockpit and started preparing for takeoff. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Iscah began to guide the ship out of the atmosphere.

 _Just wait for me, Veréne,_ she thought into the fog covering their Bond. _I_ will _find you and I_ will _rescue you. I promise._

* * *

**24 ABY**

“Thank you for this, Master Skywalker, really.”

“Cal Kestis is a good man. Any student of his is welcome here.”

Iscah smiled wanly and smiled after the Jedi Master. It was a strange thing to be in the presence of a legend. Cal was perhaps a more experienced Jedi, but Luke Skywalker was a galaxy-wide hero. She’d grown up hearing stories about the Rebellion, about the man who had single-handedly brought the Jedi back from extinction. And while Iscah knew that wasn’t necessarily accurate—having grown into adulthood under the tutelage of a man who had survived Order 66—she had still felt a little starstruck when she’d been sent to see him.

Luke Skywalker seemed more like a myth than a man in all honesty. Or, at least, he _had_. In person, he was… just another man. He was soft-spoken, not unlike her own Master, but there was something so commonplace about him. Cal had been raised by the old Jedi Order, and even the years spent running from his past hadn’t been able to cancel out the sheer Jedi-ness of him. Luke Skywalker? He was a beacon of light within the Force, to be certain. But just looking at him? He seemed like any other man. Just a moisture farmer turned into a Jedi.

He was shorter than she’d expected.

He turned his sky-blue eyes on her and they were lit up with amusement. Iscah barely managed not to flush under that gaze, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he had _sensed_ her thoughts. There were all sorts of stories about what Luke Skywalker could do—most of them were bantha shit. Iscah was a Jedi herself, and she knew for certain that there wasn’t a Force-user alive who could see _everyone’s_ thoughts with no effort involved. The public loved to make up stories about the Jedi, who had been more legend than real even before their genocide. But _Cal_ had once told her he’d never met anyone stronger in the Force than Luke Skywalker, excluding the Sith lord Darth Vader.

Iscah had the good sense to steer her mind clear of any further judgements on the Jedi Master’s appearance.

“I wasn’t aware you and my Master were acquainted, actually,” she commented in an effort to distract herself. “Not until he told me to come to you for help, of course.”

“We haven’t had much reason to keep up our acquaintance, it’s true. I admire him greatly. Your Master survived the Jedi Purge, the death of his whole way of life, at the tender age of thirteen. That’s not even to mention his survival of the years beyond that. I know that’s no small feat.”

They passed a small group of younglings practicing their meditations. Iscah smiled fondly at them; there were so many more here than there were on Iulia! The youngest of Cal’s younglings and Padawans would be around ten now. There had never been many of them to begin with—Iscah and Veréne had been handful enough that he hadn’t even acquired more students until they were in their early teens—and the number had stayed relatively small. Cal had only ever taken in orphans, children rescued from the Imperial remnants that still seemed to hunt down Force-sensitives. No one knew about their Temple, either, so it wasn’t like parents could drop off their Force adept children who needed the guidance.

Not like here. Luke Skywalker’s Temple wasn’t exactly _big_ , but it gave the impression of growth in a way Temple Ealhhere never had.

“Ultimately, however, we wanted different things for the Jedi,” Luke continued, drawing her attention away from the children. When she turned back to him, she saw that he was watching her with a quiet sort of approval. This time she did flush, and was grateful when he turned and returned to their informal tour. “I understand why he’d want to keep his Temple hidden. Being beholden to the Galactic Republic did not… turn out well for the old Jedi Order. He lived through the destruction of everything he knew; of course he’d want to protect his new home and family.”

Iscah didn’t bother commenting on this. It was a subject that Cal rarely touched upon with his students. He taught them all about the Purge, of course. And he answered any questions they came up with. But he had been a child when Order 66 had taken place, and even more than that, he had been completely traumatized. He’d healed, of course, and he hadn’t let the past consume him. But even so… She’d felt the pain in him through their Master-Padawan Bond; she’d had no desire to cause him more hurt by bringing up the destruction of his people.

Luke and Iscah finally stopped before a larger hut-building than the rest of them. Their records room, no doubt. “But although I can understand and appreciate his reasoning, we didn’t agree.” He smiled, and the way it reached his eyes took any sting out of the words that Iscah might have felt on behalf of her Master otherwise. “I didn’t learn from the Jedi Masters of old like he did. I became a Jedi while I was in the Rebellion; I became a Jedi _for_ the Rebellion.”

He turned back to the rest of the Temple grounds—from the hill their destination rested on they could see it all. Iscah watched the older man’s face fill with pride, and something almost like sadness. “The Jedi were once a symbol of hope and peace for the galaxy. Even after the war it wouldn’t have felt right to let them all fade back into myth and legend again. I didn’t want to pass on what I knew in secret.”

Personally, Iscah could see both sides of it. On one hand, the Jedi weren’t some dirty secret that should be kept from the rest of the galaxy. Many people had been inspired by the Jedi and had benefited from their diplomacy and interventions. On the other hand, what was to stop the galaxy from pushing the Jedi into positions of influence once again? The Jedi had never been meant for war, and yet they had been forced into it through years of integration with the Galactic Senate.

Her thoughts turned, as they always did, towards Veréne and her capture and disappearance. Would being more well-known have made it harder for her to be taken? Or easier to find and rescue?

Iscah wasn’t sure.

Iscah glanced at the man beside her, raised a brow. “It’s my understanding that you learned from Master Yoda and Master Obi-Wan Kenobi.” She entered the building at Skywalker’s behest, ducking underneath the cloth that covered the entrance when he held it back for her. “According to Master Cal, and others no doubt, those two would most certainly be considered ‘Jedi Masters of old’.”

Skywalker laughed. “No doubt, no doubt. But no one could call my training conventional. And I didn’t want my own students to learn conventionally, either. This may be a Jedi Temple, but I didn’t want to just follow in the footsteps of the old Jedi Order. I wanted to forge a new path for the Jedi.”

Iscah looked around the room, noting with disappointment how few records there were. When Cal had contacted her with contact information of _Luke Skywalker_ , for some reason she’d thought she would find herself answers at last. But there was hardly anything more here than there was on Iulia.

Still, it was another solid source of information, and she wasn’t ungrateful. She’d been searching for a year already, chasing after rumors and cold trails. There had even been a few, heart-stopping encounters with Imperial sympathizers that had made Iscah believe she’d been about to find Veréne. But other than that? Chasing down Force-user rumors had been downright painful. This was the first time she’d tried contacting the other Jedi Temple to see if they, perhaps, had anything different than the information that Cal already had.

Iscah would try anything, go anywhere, if it meant even the slightest possibility of bringing Veréne back.

She turned to the living legend before her and bowed deeply. “At the risk of repeating myself too often, thank you again. It’s, unsurprisingly, quite difficult to find any information relating to the Jedi or Sith nowadays.”

Skywalker smiled understandingly at her. “Knight Iura, you are more than welcome.” Iscah still wasn’t entirely sure whether or not the sheer _knowing_ in his eyes was comforting or disconcerting. “I understand you’ve lost someone to the Empire and you’re trying to find some kind of lead.” He frowned, tucking his hands into his sleeves. “Your Master didn’t give me any details, but it wasn’t hard to fill in the gaps. Another Jedi like yourself?”

“It’s Iscah, please,” Iscah replied, her smile brittle. “ _Temporarily_ lost someone, but yes. We were… together when it happened. She sacrificed herself so I would go free.” It was still a hard thing to admit, even with all the time she’d had to dwell on it. “They found us in an old Jedi temple, and it seems to me that searching for similar sites is the best place to start.”

“Then I insist you call me Luke. You are, after all, no longer a student.” Luke reached out with his right hand, a metal prosthetic he didn’t bother covering with synthetic skin, and laid it gently on Iscah’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. The Empire… I know what it does to people. I’ve seen its damning effects firsthand. And I… I know what it is, to lose someone you care about to that kind of beast.” His eyes took on a faraway look, and Iscah knew he was seeing into the past. “We worked so hard to defeat it, sacrificed so much, and even now the remnants remain…”

Iscah squared her shoulders, raised her chin defiantly, and that seemed to draw his attention back to the present. “It doesn’t matter who has her. I _am_ going to get her back. The Emperor himself could return, could be the one that has her, and I’d _still_ get her back.”

Loyal to a fault, her Master called her. Willful and headstrong, Mads said. More stubborn than a herd of reeks, Veréne had once told her.

Iscah had always been filled with self-doubt. She’d doubted in her own control of the Force, agonized over her ability to protect people, struggled with the ‘what ifs’ of just about everything. But for all those insecurities, one thing could be said about Iscah: once she’d committed herself to a task, that was that.

And currently, the task she had committed herself body and soul to was finding Verene.

Sky-blue bore into ocean-blue for several long moments before a smirk lifted a corner of the older Jedi’s mouth. She could see the boy he had once been, then. The kind of boy who had been able to face down the Emperor with nothing but steadfast love and _win._ “Somehow, Iscah Iura, I don’t doubt that.”

He nodded to the single-room building. “All the knowledge we have is at your disposal. If you have any questions, you’re welcome to come to me. Or one of the older students if you can catch them.”

Iscah smiled gratefully as he turned to leave her to her task, seeming to sense she would rather be alone. “Thank you, Master Luke.”

***

Iscah hadn’t realized how long she’d spent pouring over the—admittedly limited—records that Luke Skywalker kept until one of his students came to check on her. Apparently, the Jedi Master had been concerned when she hadn’t emerged from her research for the midday meal, nor for the evening one either. She’d always had a tendency to get lost in a task. Veréne and Cal and the rest of Temple Ealhhere had gotten so used to it that she forgot others might view such a single-mindedness with alarm.

She sensed the presence behind her as she sat translating a particularly difficult scroll. “Knight Iura? Uncle Luke sent me to make sure you were still alive.”

Iscah’s head popped up distractedly from behind a stack of datapads she had stacked nearby. “Ah, I’m fine. Just… busy,” she continued, her attention already being reclaimed by the scroll. She was almost finished with it, and it had already yielded several locations she could scope out next.

There wasn’t a great deal of information here, but it was all different information than that which her Master had been able to grant her. Hope was starting to fill her again at the possibility of one of these new leads turning up something more concrete than her previous ones.

And maybe, just maybe, one of them would lead her to Veréne.

That possibility had sufficiently distracted her when his words finally caught up with her. “Wait, did you say ‘Uncle Luke’?”

She looked up to meet the sullen gaze of a boy who was perhaps two or three years younger than herself. He was dark-haired, pale, and had all the awkward gangliness of a teenager. Iscah might have been amused by him—she wasn’t much older, and well remembered how difficult it was to go through puberty _and_ be in training to become a Jedi—except that he was looking around the room with a growing distress. He ignored her question, instead gazing around at the nest she’d unintentionally built around herself.

He looked distinctly pained by it.

“What are you looking for?” he asked in a tone that implied he was used to people telling him what he wanted to know.

Iscah raised a brow. “A friend.”

“In old, forgotten scrolls?”

“If that’s what it takes,” she said, steel entering her voice.

Iscah fixed the boy with a look that would have quelled one of the Padwans of Ealhhere. Instead of looking contrite, however, the boy fixed her with a look of his own. They remained like that for long enough that Iscah would’ve been embarrassed at any other time. She didn’t fully understand what he _wanted_ , and his slightly demanding demeanor wasn’t helping her do so.

It occurred to Iscah suddenly that she wasn’t used to people anymore. It wasn’t just that she was alone because Veréne wasn’t with her, or because she refused to go back to Temple Ealhhere before she’d found her friend. And it wasn’t that she wasn’t accustomed to dealing with people, exactly; six months into her search meant she’d had all sorts of interesting interactions. 

No, it was as though Iscah’s search had rendered her incapable of properly connecting with people.

Iscah roamed around the galaxy like a ghost, chasing ghosts, and now it surprised her when people seemed to see her.

She stood up, stretching muscles that were stiff from sitting for hours in awkward positions. “Please tell Master Luke not to worry about me. This is hardly the longest I’ve gone without rest.”

“That’s not going to stop him from worrying. He worries about _everything_.”

Without meaning to, Iscah laughed. “That’s just how Masters are, unfortunately. But, in this case, there’s really nothing to worry all that much about.”

The boy continued to look vaguely haughty and increasingly distressed by the mess Iscah had made. Realizing that he wasn’t going to leave her alone until she did _something_ , she sighed. Iscah began to gather armfuls of datapads, carefully extricating her own notes from the piles. She’d made decent progress, and if she couldn’t stay and research more without worrying the whole bloody Temple then at least she’d be able to organize and prioritize her notes in the privacy of her own quarters.

Already mulling over where she would go next, Iscah was surprised when she heard a shuffling sound behind her. Turning, she saw the boy with an armful of scrolls. For as entitled as he’d been when he’d questioned her, he took great care in how he handled the aging documents. Some of his awkward gangliness left him as he carried the old papers to their proper places. A quiet confidence replaced it, movements firm and decisive, but calculated.

Iscah thought for a moment that she could see what he’d be like when he grew up fully.

“You don’t have to-”

“You probably don’t remember where they all go,” he said with a shrug, taking them back to their proper shelves. Iscah might have felt insulted, except she was half certain now that he had a deadpan kind of humor and was possibly teasing her. “Besides, Uncle Luke won’t leave it alone until he sees you’ve taken a break.” He rolled his eyes, shooting her a look that was filled with conspiration. “Personally? I don’t want to deal with a cranky Luke Skywalker in the morning if he’s spent half the night worrying about _you_.”

Iscah watched him for a moment before joining him in putting the documents away. “What’s your name?”

“Ben. What’s yours?”

“Iscah.”

Neither of them had anything else to say after that. It wasn’t awkward, the silence that filled the hut as they worked. Nor was it particularly familiar or friendly. But it settled something inside Iscah, to be working quietly alongside someone with no expectations of her. She wasn’t sure why Ben had been the one to come find her, or why he was helping her now, but he seemed to have come to some conclusion regarding her presence there. What that conclusion was, Iscah would never know. The boy finished helping her and then he was gone.

Iscah didn’t see him for the rest of the time she spent in Skywalker’s Temple. She left two days later with more leads to search than she’d had in an entire year.

Iscah stood before Luke, her belongings carefully stored aboard her ship, still thanking the Jedi Master profusely for all he had done. She hadn’t spent much time with him over the last couple of days, but nevertheless he’d left an impression on her.

“I don’t suppose I could convince you to stay, could I?” he asked with a grin that told Iscah he already knew the answer.

She didn’t hesitate to answer. “No. Veréne needs me, and I won’t leave her alone to the Empire.”

Luke laughed. “No, no of course not. I wouldn’t expect you to.” His expression softened again. “I meant afterwards. I could use another trained Jedi here to help train my students.”

Iscah’s eyebrows rose towards her hairline. “Master Skywalker, I-”

“Luke,” he reminded her with such familiarity that Iscah was almost tempted to promise she’d come back.

But something in the Force whispered to her that no, she would not be returning there.

“Master Luke,” she began again, flushing, “I’m honored, but my place is with Veréne and Master Cal.

“Ah, well. It couldn’t hurt to ask.” Stepping forward, Luke placed both his hands on her shoulders. “Rest assured, though, you have a place here if you ever felt the need to start afresh.”

“Thank you, Master Luke. For everything.”

Luke smiled at her as she clutched her notes in her eagerness to get _going_ already. “May the Force be with you on your mission, Iscah Iura. You’ll experience many hardships along the way—as I’m sure you already have—but something tells me you’re more than capable of rising to the occasion.”

Iscah smiled, feeling warmth suffuse her even as she felt antsy. “Thank you, Master Luke. I’ll be sure to give Master Cal your regards.”

And with that, she left Luke Skywalker and his Temple behind her. She would never see the legendary Jedi again, nor would she see Ben Solo again for nearly fifteen years.

* * *

  
  


**24.5 ABY**

“I’m worried about you, Iscah.”

“Don’t be, Master Cal. I’m doing okay.”

Iscah forced a wan smile for her Master, whose concern she could see clearly even despite the flickering holo image. The smile didn’t really seem to help, but it was all the reassurance she could give him. The few times she’d managed to connect with him—or Mads, for that matter—over the holocoms Iscah had watched them descend further and further into worry for her.

Cal Kestis sighed. “You look tired, my former Padawan.”

“I _am_ tired, Master,” Iscah said with a laugh that carried all her exhaustion _badly_. “But I’m all right. It’s been a rough couple of weeks, that’s all.”

A rough year and a half, actually, but Iscah didn’t intend to cause him any more worry than she needed to.

Finding and searching ancient Force-user sites, looking for any clues that could tell her the intentions of the Empire remnants, was a tedious process at times. Particularly when Iscah could feel time pressing all against her, wasting away. Every second she took to pour over ruins or ancient texts or strange artifacts was another second Veréne was at the mercy of the Empire.

Of all the things Iscah had about the Empire in her travels, she’d yet to discover a shred of proof regarding them containing anything even resembling _mercy_.

It was slow going, no matter how many places Iscah found and searched. None had yielded clues as to the Empire’s intentions. Whatever part of the Empire had taken Veréne was well-hidden. Eventually Iscah had begun to search Sith-related sites as well, wondering if perhaps those would yield more promising results.

They hadn’t, but they _had_ certainly led to some interesting places.

It was strange, the things that could happen in a year. The number of things that could change, and the number of things that stayed the same. Iscah had become so much more _confident_ a year out from the start of her quest, able to trust more deeply in her connection with the Force. And yet, her determination and drive for finding Veréne hadn’t lessened in the slightest. If anything, she’d become even more focused on her goal.

Cal frowned, ran a hand through his hair, and Iscah wondered idly if it was greyer than it had been when she’d left. It had only been a year, but the few times they’d connected on a holo call she couldn’t help but notice the deepening lines around his eyes. The loss of Veréne and the flight of Iscah were taking their toll on him more than either he or Mads would communicate with her.

 _My fault_ , Iscah thought with a mental sigh. She knew how much he worried for her—and, she suspected even though he never said it, mourned for Veréne—even as he trusted in the will of the Force to keep her alive. She knew how much he’d rather she was back on Iulia where he could keep an eye on her.

She’d return to Iulia only when she finally held Veréne’s hand in her own again.

“Iscah, even you need to rest eventually,” he began in a tone she _knew_ meant an argument was coming. She’d never fought with him as a child or teenager, but since Veréne had disappeared she’d found herself increasingly at odds with everyone in her life. “Why don’t you come back, just for a break, and then we can-”

“No,” she said, struggling to keep the panic out of her voice at the thought of doing such a thing. “No, I cannot… Veréne _needs_ me to find her, Master. I can’t afford to be taking a _vacation_ , of all-”

The sound that came out of him was more aggravated than any she’d ever heard come out of him before. “Padawan, you are no good to Veréne if you collapse from exhaustion. Or poorly tended injuries.” A single brow rose, and Iscah was glad for the fact that the blue-shading of the holo call would make it impossible for him to see her flush. “Don’t think I don’t see those bandages peeking out from your sleeve.”

Iscah tugged her right sleeve down so it covered the wrappings around her forearm, trying not to let the action look guilty. “It was nothing, Master Cal. A bit of a misunderstanding with some… ah, Empire enthusiasts.”

Former Imperial supporters who’d had slug shooters instead of blasters and had been _quite_ determined to see if she could block them with her lightsaber like she could other energy weapons. She could not, in fact, block them, but she had been able to cut most of them down. The exception, unfortunately, had been the one that had caught her right arm hard enough to fracture her ulna.

She... _might_ have used the Force to bring down their very small, hidden base in retaliation.

It had been her most stunning display of Force control to date, and she was rather proud of herself. Even if her arm did hurt like a bitch.

Probably best to leave out the part about them having cornered her when they’d been shooting at her. She didn’t think Cal’s poor heart could take all the details about the situations Iscah had been getting herself into lately.

Another look of concern cut across the irritation on Cal’s face. “Iscah…”

“I’m all right, really,” she cut in, waving her arm to show him just how all right she was. It was an impressive display of self-control that she didn’t flinch at the stab of pain the motion caused. “Barely even a fracture. It’ll be fully healed in a few weeks.”

She hadn’t tried to heal herself with the Force at all, which was perhaps the most telling sign regarding her exhaustion.

“You could at _least_ seek medical attention, you know.”

“If I don’t have time to take a ‘break’ on Iulia, then I _certainly_ don’t have time to let a medic fuss over me,” she said with a derisive snort. “I’m _fine_ , Master Cal. I have med packs and bacta and the Force with me. If I thought it was serious, I would be taking it more seriously.”

Probably. Maybe.

...Another thing to keep from Master Cal. 

“You are the single most stubborn being I have ever known, Iscah Iura. I hope you know that.” Cal scrubbed a hand over his face. She watched as he rubbed his beard, a surefire sign of how stressed he was. She remembered that gesture well from her childhood. “Tell me you’re being careful, at least. That you’re not putting yourself into any unnecessary danger.”

She’d encountered Imperial factions and their supporters here and there throughout the year, but nothing had led her to her friend. She’d gotten in firefights with them, brought her saber to bear against vibroblade-armed stormtroopers, joined in raids against them, even played spy and broken in to sabotage their systems. She’d been shot at, hunted down, briefly imprisoned, on one memorable occasion been poisoned, had ex-Moffs place bounties on her head.

That wasn’t even counting all the shit she’d got herself into that _didn’t_ involve the Empire, its enthusiasts, or its supporters.

In truth, Iscah knew she was being reckless. She was keeping her search smart, that was true. She remembered Mads’ advice to her when he’d sent her off in his ship. She collected intel on the bits and pieces of the Empire that had managed to cling to life, she tracked down ancient Force temples to try and figure out _why_ they’d come for Veréne, she avoided attention and identification as a Jedi like a plague. But just as she had no time for breaks, likewise she had no time for safety.

A year ago, she would’ve been the one holding Veréne back from flinging herself headlong into every fight she could. Now, Iscah found herself fighting battles _Veréne_ would’ve told her to be more careful about.

If someone had told Iscah a year ago that she would be taking on bounty hunters and Inquisitors and the remnants of the Empire almost single-handedly, she wouldn’t have believed them. Sometimes it frightened Iscah how much the loss of Veréne, and the equally desperate search for her, was changing her. Sometimes it frightened her how much she could change and _still_ feel like she wasn’t enough.

Sometimes she was afraid this harried feeling would never leave her. That even at the end of all this, she would never be rid of the sense of running out of time.

But Iscah couldn’t tell her Master all that.

“I am, Master Cal. As careful as I can be.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then, “Why don’t I believe you?” He pinched the bridge of his nose, and Iscah thought for just a moment that he was about to pick another fight. But then his shoulders slumped, and he said tiredly, “You know, it never used to be you that I worried about getting herself into impossible situations.”

“I know,” Iscah replied, but without apology. She wouldn’t apologize for doing what she had to in order to get her friend back.

And it was all necessary, she told herself. It had to be.

Cal shook his head, but at least his voice was warm when he continued, “You’d best get Veréne back soon, then. I don’t like the thought of you being the reckless one becoming a permanent change.”

Iscah laughed, feeling her eyes burn. “Who knows, Master? Maybe we’ll switch places and it’ll be Veréne’s turn to chase after me.”

“Force help us if that ever happens,” he said with a sad, tired laugh. “You’ll contact me, won’t you? If you find anything, or if the need arises.”

“Of course, Master,” she said, and she meant it.

His face softened, and Iscah felt another stab of guilt for how tired he looked. “And you know you can contact me even if nothing comes up, right? If you just want to talk, or if you need _anything_.”

“I know, Master, thank you,” Iscah said, swallowing the words ‘but I won’t because I can’t afford to’. They would just hurt her Master more, and if he worried enough he’d send Mads after her to check in.

Cal’s face looked pinched with worry, but he had always had a talent for letting things go that he couldn’t control. “I’ll leave you to your search; I have _actual_ Padawans to get to. I think we’ll have some Knights to join your rank soon.”

Iscah grinned. “That’s good, Master. Maybe you’ll be able to lighten up a bit then, hm? I think your porg’s feet are deeper than the last time we talked.”

To her amused relief, he actually reached up and touched the lines by his eyes. “Are they really?”

Iscah nodded gravely. “I’m afraid so, Master. But don’t worry; Mads told me once that he thought they make you look distinguished.”

Cal choked on nothing, and Iscah would’ve bet good credits that he was blushing.

“Away with you,” he exclaimed, clearly embarrassed. “You’re getting as bad as Veréne used to be.”

“A compliment surely, Master.”

Shaking his head, Cal reached forward. “May the Force be with you, my very meddlesome former Padawan.”

Iscah also reached forward. Their hands could almost touch. “And with you, my very easily flustered Master.”

And with that they ended the call.

Iscah was alone again.

Gingerly, she felt around her bandaged and splinted forearm with the Force. It _was_ healing well, but it would’ve done better with some bacta and some rest. The rest, Iscah couldn’t afford. But perhaps she’d be able to find some bacta at her next destination. 

Hopefully. 

If luck and the Force were on her side more than they had been on the last three planets she’d been to.

Iscah surveyed the beige and white planet below as she came into its orbit. She doubted she was going to find any Imperial hideouts. It didn’t look as though much of anything could be hiding on the planet, really. Sure, she could see the skeletons of old star destroyers out in the desert wasteland as she descended. But they were _old_ , and likely stripped of all halfway useful clues.

This wasn’t anything new, of course. But that certainly wasn’t going to be enough to stop Iscah from searching what she could of the planet. Iscah was determined to remain optimistic about her odds. Realistic as well, of course. But hopeful, always. Iscah could constantly feel the gaping maw of despair she would fall into if she dwelled too long on how little she had accomplished in a year.

If Iscah couldn’t afford rest, she _certainly_ couldn’t avoid despair. So, no matter how many dead ends she hit, no matter how many dangerous encounters turned out to be pointless, Iscah regarded every single lead she chased with _hope_.

Whatever undying piece of the old Empire had taken Veréne was certainly good at hiding; she couldn’t afford to leave any possible lead go cold at this point. Nothing had led her to any more information regarding the frighteningly well-organized star destroyer. It was like it had taken her friend and disappeared into the ether.

Iscah’s jaw clenched. It didn’t matter how well it hid. One way or another, sooner or later, Iscah would find it.

Iscah would search for Veréne until every last sun in the galaxy had been extinguished.

_Veréne?_

No answer. After a year she no longer expected one. Hoped, yes. Dreamed, of course. But she hadn’t expected much after the first month of complete silence. Every once in a while, when she floated in that space between wakefulness and sleep, she would think she felt something. But whenever focused on it there was nothing there. By now, Iscah was sure it was her own imagination.

Even so, hope sprung eternal. She had no intention of leaving the shrouded Bond silent. There was the ever-so-slight possibility that even though Iscah couldn’t feel Veréne, Veréne could feel Iscah. So the Jedi did her best to send reassurances into the darkened Bond whenever she could, even despite the growing feeling that it was pointless.

_Just a little longer, Veréne. Hang on just a bit longer for me._

* * *

**25 ABY**

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Iscah said to no one but herself.

One would think that, after two years of getting into some rather _interesting_ escapades, she would learn to _listen_ to those Bad Feelings when they cropped up. But, of course, she did not. It was less recklessness, more stubbornness. No Bad Feeling would come between her and her search, even if the Force _was_ moving very strangely around the pit she was currently crouched over.

 _Why is it always a dark, ominous hole in the ground?_ Iscah thought to herself, pulling out her grappling gun and firing it at a nearby boulder. _Why is it_ never _just… in an open plain, or a well-lit forest? A nice, sunny oceanside city?_

Some things were universal. Your hyperdrive would fail you, but only for a heart-stopping moment, right when you needed it the most. If something tried to eat you, something bigger would come along and eat it right before your very eyes. Imp scum _loved_ to talk about their evil plans right in front of you, completely ignoring the ham-handed job their troopers had done of securing you.

The most important Force-related sites were located in dark, ominous holes in the ground.

Once Iscah was completely certain the hook was firmly secured in the bolder, she ignited her lightsaber with her other hand and lowered herself down into the hole.

 _At least I’m not just jumping in, no plan or_ anything _. Do you see how stupid this is, Veréne?_ she griped at their Bond as absentmindedly as she would’ve if Veréne had actually been there. _Still, shame one us. If the Jedi Masters of old could see the new generation of Jedi, jumping headfirst into caves that scream ‘Bad Idea’ they would_ weep _._

Sometimes, when Iscah told Cal of her exploits, he _looked_ like he wanted to weep.

The deep azure glow of her lightsaber illuminated her descent somewhat. It looked natural, the rocks rough and glittering with moisture and minerals. It was uncomfortably humid; Iscah wished she had taken off the leather jacket she was wearing before she’d gone in. She picked out strange, moss-like groupings of plants dotting the surface of the stone: blues and greens and purples that weren’t like any shades she’d ever seen before.

Really, despite its general darkness and the fact that she was currently in a _giant hole in the ground_ , Logawa was a rather beautiful planet. It was as far from its system’s sun as it could get and still be habitable, which some might have assumed would make it colder. But the planet’s core must have been incredible, because Logawa was hot and humid as anything. Most of its surface was covered in thick, flowering jungles. The native peoples of Logawa had been incredibly kind and hospitable, right up until the point when Iscah began to question them about an ancient Force site that was rumored to be located deep in the uninhabited parts of the planet.

The Logawan who’d graciously offered to host Iscah had looked so, so sad when she’d told them she was determined to visit it.

 _No one comes back from that place_ , they’d said, their three sets of eyes blinking sadly. _No one_ wants _to come back. They lose the will to live in the jungle caves_.

That had certainly been ominous.

Still, Iscah had a mission, and no hole in the ground was going to stop her.

Besides, nothing had tried to jump out and eat her so far, so that was already far better than what she was accustomed to nowadays.

The cave was strangely and suspiciously free of the bug and animal life she had seen on Logawa’s surface, but that wasn’t any more alarming than anything else Iscah had seen so far. She’d often found places that were particularly strong in the Force seemed to repel wildlife away from their hearts. It grew all around the ancient sites—a balance of life and death and the very cycles of the galaxy itself—but once you got to the very heart of such a place, it was just you and the Force.

Places like this weren’t places beings came to build a life in. They were the kinds of places beings came to when they were nothing short of desperate.

Finally, Iscah could see the cave floor. It was _covered_ in the same moss that had only sparsely covered its walls. The blue light of her blade was steady, so the shadows that pressed around her were stationary, but Iscah couldn’t help the feeling that something was _breathing_ down there.

Gingerly, Iscah lowered herself to the floor. It was spongey with the colorful plant life, and the Jedi felt sorry she was stepping on it. She lifted her lightsaber high above her head, casting its constant, ocean light around the small space she’d found herself in, looking for… _something_.

But there was nothing. No connecting caves, no entrances into any kind of temple, no other holes to further descend into. The space she’d lowered herself into was as natural as she’d thought it to be when she’d lowered herself down, its shape roughly circular.

Iscah, whose determination and hope hadn’t fled her even once in the last two years, wasn’t about to give up that easily. When the plants didn’t surge up to grab her, when nothing darted out of the shadows to snatch her up, when she was confident the silence would remain just that, Iscah took a deep breath and opened her mind to the Force.

She had just enough time to think, _Ah,_ there’s _that bad feeling again_ , before a huge swell of the Force crested over her, dragging her down into its depths.

***

Someone was tracing the bones of Iscah’s face.

Gentle, clever fingers ghosted over the ridge of her brows, down her nose, across her cheekbones. They came to her mouth, and a thumb pressed softly against her bottom lip. Iscah parted them unconsciously and was rewarded by a warm humming laugh of approval.

 _I know that laugh_.

“I thought you were asleep,” the person said as if in apology, although there was no contrition in their tone.

_I know that voice._

Iscah opened her eyes, her heart thundering like the storms of Iulia.

“Probably better that you’re awake though. If Master Cal catches you sleeping out in the rain again he’ll probably kick both our asses in saber training.”

_I know that face._

Veréne grinned down at her, her fingers moving away from Iscah’s lips so she could rest her hand against the curve of her jawline. This close, Iscah could pick out the small smattering of freckles that graced her nose and cheeks. Her eyes, green and wild and verdant as a forest, sparkled with good humor. Thick, dark brown hair that was wavy and tousled had been pushed back from her face and now spilled over one shoulder.

“ _Veréne_?”

Her friend, her reason for keeping hope alive, her lifesuit in a nova storm. She looked just as Iscah remembered her, down to the way one corner of her mouth lifted higher than the other when she was particularly amused by something. She didn’t seem scared, or traumatized, or like anything _bad_ had happened at all.

She just looked like Veréne.

“I should’ve woken you up sooner,” she said, as if Iscah’s world wasn’t spinning in and out of focus around her, “but you looked so peaceful. Your nightmares were so bad last night I figured you could use the extra sleep.”

 _What in the name of the Force is_ happening _?_

Iscah shot up and Veréne barely managed to scramble back before their foreheads collided. “Oi, watch it!”

But Iscah didn’t pay any attention. She looked around, taking in their surroundings. They were sitting on one of the rocky overlooks on Iulia where they'd always gone to relax. The ocean below them was swirling good-naturedly in the Force, and although Veréne had mentioned rain there were, for once, hardly any clouds in Iulia’s normally stormy sky.

Iscah, feeling both numb and oversensitive at the same time, turned to look at Veréne again. She reached forward and touched Veréne’s shoulder with a shaking hand. It was _solid_ and _warm_ beneath her suddenly cold fingertips. There was the small, faded scar where Iscah had once nicked her with a training saber. Iscah ran her trembling fingers down the length of Veréne’s arm, down to her hand. Her fingertips were calloused from years of lightsaber training, just as Iscah remembered them. Their shape, the way they moved to grasp her hand, was as familiar to her as her own hands.

“Okay, you’re starting to freak me out,” Veréne said, her smile finally fading into exasperated concern. “Relax, would you? Come on, come here.”

Iscah felt all but limp now with confusion and so didn’t resist when Veréne pulled her head down so that it was resting in her lap. She might have protested the treatment otherwise, suspicious of some prank on Veréne’s part, but her mind was currently buckling under the reality that _Veréne was right there in front of her_ . When Veréne’s hands began to gently card through Iscah’s hair, root to end, it was all she could do to keep from _sobbing_.

“Geez, those nightmares really were bad, huh?” Veréne murmured, carefully working out a tangle in her hair when Iscah hissed as it was pulled. Her fingers worked in a familiar and confident manner, knowing just how to touch Iscah to get her to relax. “They’re just dreams, Iscah, isn’t that what you always say? Master Cal would be telling you to just let them go.”

Faintly, she whispered, “What dreams?” because she didn’t know what else _to_ say. Didn’t know how to vocalize the impossible, miraculous thing that was happening to her.

Veréne’s face pinched in a frown. “Shit, Iscah, maybe we actually should go to Cal. How do you _not_ remember? You woke up screaming so hard I thought you’d tear the lining of your throat.”

Iscah sat up again, much to the chagrin of Veréne, who had been in the process of plaiting her long straight hair. It almost immediately fell out when Iscah turned to fully face Veréne. “I did?”

“Yeah. Kept going on about how I’d gotten taken or disappeared or something ridiculous like that.”

“ _What_?”

Veréne nodded, as if the flummoxed expression on Iscah’s face was to be expected. “I know, right? Like I said, ridiculous.” Reaching forward, she pushed some of Iscah’s hair away from her face. “As if there’s anything in the galaxy that could separate us.”

But Iscah was barely listening to her now, her thoughts swirling like the ocean below them. Had it... all been a dream? Could it have _possibly_ been so? A horrible, reality-bending nightmare? It hadn’t _felt_ like a dream; the past two years were still fresh as a bleeding wound in her memory.

...Weren’t they?

“That… But I _remember_ everything!” Iscah exclaimed, feeling like the ground was dropping out from underneath her. “I- Veréne, I spent _two years_ looking for you! The Empire took you and I-I couldn’t find you . I tried everything, I looked _everywhere_ , and-”

The different planets were starting to run together though. She’d searched, of course, she’d looked everywhere just like she’d said. But where was everywhere? She couldn’t remember the last place she’d looked for Veréne. When she tried, all she could recall was strange, multi-colored plants and perhaps humidity…

There was a panicked edge to her voice that must have alarmed Veréne, because suddenly her friend’s hands were cupping her face. Forest met ocean as Veréne’s eyes searched hers concernedly. Iscah half expected to feel Veréne prodding the edges of her mind from her side of their Bond, but she didn’t. Instead, she brought their foreheads together, her thumbs running soothing circles across Iscah’s cheekbones.

“Hey, hey, hey,” she soothed, and Iscah all but melted into her touch. She’d always been weak for Veréne and allowing herself to be comforted now was a bigger relief than any she’d ever felt before. “Shh, hey, it’s okay. I promise everything’s alright.”

_Everything’s going to be alright._

A wounded sound escaped Iscah and was echoed by Veréne when she pulled away. Veréne’s hands remained on Iscah’s face though, and they anchored Iscah back to the present. Without thinking, Iscah turned her face to press her lips against one of Veréne’s palms. But as soon as she’d done it, she froze, the action catching up to her.

_What did I just do?_

But Veréne didn’t seem to find anything strange about the action. Instead, she touched Iscah’s bottom lip with her thumb again. “I’d never leave you behind. You know that, right?” The hand that wasn’t gently tracing Iscah’s mouth dropped to take her hand. “ _Nothing_ could ever take me away from you.” Her lips twitched upward in a small, encouraging smile and Iscah felt her heart skip in her chest. “I’m Veréne fucking Aro, and there’s not a person alive that could keep me from you, Iscah Iura.”

Her hand slipped around to cup the back of Iscah’s neck, and then Veréne closed the distance between them and kissed her.

It was perfect.

It was everything Iscah had ever imagined, had ever _dreamed_ of.

It wasn’t real.

The Bond that should’ve lit up between them was still cold and shrouded by darkness.

When Iscah didn’t respond to the kiss, Veréne pulled backwards. “What’s wrong?”

Iscah smiled even as the tears filled her eyes, spilling down her cheeks. “You’re not Veréne.”

The fake Veréne frowned, her one hand squeezing Iscah’s reassuringly. “Of course I am, nerf head. Who else would I be?”

“I don’t know,” Iscah admitted, her eyes closing briefly as she resisted the urge to lean back into the hand cupping the back of her head. “But if you really were Veréne, I would feel you in our Bond. And… Veréne wouldn’t have kissed me.”

Iscah loved Veréne. Loved her so, so much. And she knew Veréne loved her _just_ as much. So it didn’t matter if Veréne didn’t love her in quite the same way that Iscah did. All Iscah wanted, really, was for them to be _together_ , no matter the form that took.

Even if, on occasion, the strength of her own feelings made her chest ache.

The fake Veréne watched Iscah closely for a long moment, already stiller and more silent than the real Veréne would’ve been in her place. Then she sighed, released Iscah’s head but not her hand. She grabbed Iscah’s other hand, bringing them both up to her lips. She kissed Iscah’s knuckles, the backs of Iscah’s hands, her palms, her wrists. Iscah watched her carefully, half wanting her to stop and half hoping she never would.

The image would never leave her mind now, and Iscah wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse.

“You could just pretend,” the illusion proposed, tone suggesting she already knew Iscah would never do such a thing. “You’d even forget you were pretending, eventually.” The words should’ve sounded ominous, but Iscah was struck by the odd sincerity in her eyes. “It’d be so, so much easier for you in the long run.”

Iscah frowned. “Is that what you do to the people who come to the jungle caves of Logawa? Give them false visions and make them forget they have a life outside them?”

The illusion smiled with Veréne’s smile and it _killed_ Iscah. “You remembered that last bit, clever Jedi. Once the memories start to blur people usually just forget that anything is wrong.” She shook her head, Veréne’s lovely brown hair tumbling down both her shoulders. “It’s not nearly as sinister as you make it sound. I show hurting, wounded people what they want, what they _need_ , to heal.

“And you are so very, very hurt,” she said with such sadness that Iscah didn’t pull back when she brought their foreheads together again. “And if you keep going like this you will be hurt _far worse_ than you are now, Iscah Iura.”

The Force shifted around them and the skin on the back of Iscah’s neck prickled.

 _Something is coming_ , it seemed to whisper to her.

The illusion sighed, and Iscah could feel the breath on her own lips. “You want this so badly, Iscah. You’ve wanted this so badly, and for so long, that you got used to the pain in a way no one ever should.” She moved closer and though Iscah _knew_ she wasn’t Veréne she was still transfixed. “And then she was _gone_ , and the aching wound to which you were so acclimated became the stabbing pain of infection. You’ve let your hurt fester, Iscah, and that is going to do you _harm_ in the very near future.” Veréne’s eyes stared out of an illusion’s face at Iscah, watching the tears roll down her cheeks. “It’s doubtful that you will survive what’s coming for you, Iscah Iura. Not like this. It _kills_ people, to be this bottled up.

“First you bottled up all that love and want. Then you bottled up all your fear and grief. What happens, Iscah, when there’s no room left to keep it all inside you?”

Iscah screwed her eyes shut against the tears, wishing so badly that the illusion in front of her was the _real_ Veréne. “It doesn’t matter. I have to get her back. No matter what it takes, no matter the cost, I _will_ get her back.”

Another gust of breath, so defeated and sad, and then the illusion’s hands were cupping her face again. “There’s no shame in this. Let me give you what you want, what you _need_ , like I’ve given so many others. Please, Iscah. Let me save you.”

It was tempting to say yes. To give in, allow this illusion to bring her fantasies to life and keep her from all the heartbreak that waited for her outside Logawa’s jungle caves. But Iscah didn’t want a _fantasy_ of Veréne. She wanted the _reality_ of her, with all the pain and mess and hope and love that came with her. She didn’t need a farce to help her heal from the loneliness and regret. She needed to have _Veréne_ back, no matter what had happened or was yet to come.

She didn’t want to be saved. She wanted to be the savior.

“Let me go,” Iscah whispered against the illusion’s lips, her voice trembling. How _badly_ she wanted to give in... “You’re not who I really want. And you can’t give me what I need.”

The illusion’s face twisted unhappily. She clutched Iscah to her, crushing the Jedi against her body like she could keep her there forever. “She can’t either, you know. Not like she is now.”

Iscah pulled back, and the illusion let her. “What… What are you talking about?”

The illusion looked _sad_ : so horribly, heart-wrenchingly, impossibly sad. It was odd now, looking at her. She still looked like Veréne, but the knowledge that she _was not_ rang deep and true in Iscah’s soul now. But despite the way the Force was ebbing and flowing around them, Iscah felt no alarm. Sadness, yes, and yearning. But she didn’t believe herself to be in any danger.

When the illusion reached for her again, Iscah didn’t move. Her hands brushed her right shoulder at the joint, pressed against Iscah’s ribcage under her breast on her right side. At first, Iscah didn’t know what was happening. Then she felt it. Iscah gasped and the illusion took her into her arms again. The Jedi breathed raggedly, like she couldn’t get a proper lungful of air. Her body _ached_ like it had never ached before.

Not pain, exactly, but the echo of pain. The promise of it.

Like her body was trying to remember wounds that it had not yet incurred.

And then as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.

Iscah pushed herself away from the illusion, wide-eyed and breathless. “What was that?”

The illusion reached out as if to touch her again, but Iscah was done. She flinched, and even though she had clearly separated the true from the false in her head, it still hurt to see the wounded look in Veréne’s eyes.

“Iscah Iura,” the illusion intoned, and although her tone was still sad, it had taken on an odd echoey quality now, “you will find what you’re searching for.”

Despite everything, Iscah’s heart leapt in her chest.

“But it will destroy you.”

Iscah froze. The illusion watched her, seeming oddly static despite the illusory breeze that ruffled her hair.

_Well… shit._

The Force was swelling around her again, more urgently this time. Something was _wrong_ , but it had nothing to do with her mission on Logawa.

Iscah was running out of time.

“Time to choose, Iscah Iura,” the illusion said, and although she still looked like Veréne all pretense of her friend’s voice was gone.

“Let me go,” Iscah said, her voice steady and firm.

The illusion’s lips thinned unhappily. “You might die.”

“But Veréne might live,” she responded simply. “I’ve made my choice.”

The illusion shook her head, still so sad, and suddenly the world began to fade around Iscah as though she were passing out. She began to fall backwards but was caught by familiarly calloused hands.

“Look out for your own heart a little, Iscah Iura,” the illusion said, her voice once again Veréne’s. “You deserve the care you give to others, too.”

And then she let go, allowing Iscah to fall backwards into nothingness.

***

Iscah gasped herself awake, a sob breaking free of her. The world was dark, but she had a Jedi’s instincts. Before she even knew what was going on, she’d thumbed the ignition of the lightsaber still gripped tightly in her hand. The light was a welcome comfort, flooding the odd pit with blue.

Iscah looked around, but there was no one else in the cave with her.

_…Veréne?_

No answer from the Bond. Of course there wasn’t. There hadn’t been an answer for two years. She hadn’t really expected to hear one.

So why did that silence break her heart in two now?

Another sob broke free of her, and Iscah doubled over into herself. The first sob had opened the floodgate, and Iscah couldn’t close them now no matter how hard she tried. Her cries echoed off the rock walls, shouting her own grief back at her. 

She wasn’t sure how long she stayed like that, lying on the pit’s floor and crying her heart out. Long enough that her eyes felt nearly swollen shut and her throat felt raw. However long it was, she was dragged from the depths of her despair by the Force. It was still whispering to her urgently, exhorting her to rise and do _something_.

Iscah was running out of time.

With a grimace, Iscah dragged her forearm against her wet face. She forced herself up and onto her feet, told herself she didn’t have time for this. That she’d mourn and cry and _feel_ only once she’d gotten Veréne back. But it was an effort to get herself to her grappling gun where it still hung, powering down her lightsaber and holstering it. When she began her ascent it felt like her heart was dead weight, like it would pull her all the way down and back into the pit.

Iscah almost wished it would.

Gritting her teeth, Iscah pulled herself over the edge of the pit and as far away from it as she could. Flashes of déjà vu spun across her vision—memories of holding Veréne close when she’d pulled her from that cave two years ago—as she rolled onto her back to breathe for a moment. She didn’t reach for the foggy Bond again, didn’t think she could take the silence a second time.

 _Something_ was tugging at her mind though, and it took Iscah a moment to realize it was coming from her Master-Padawan Bond with Cal. That Bond wasn’t perhaps as strong as her Bond with Veréne was—it had waned naturally over the years as she’d matured past a Padawan’s need of her Master—and so she couldn’t feel anything more than urgency and a vague sense of alarm.

 _Hang on, Master_ , she tried to convey through distance and her own exhaustion.

Iscah dragged herself to her feet again, surprised by how difficult it was. She was exhausted, sure, but uninjured. It shouldn’t have been so hard for her to put one foot in front of the other and lug herself back to her ship. And yet, it took a concerted effort to not just sit down right there in the middle of the jungle and stay there.

The weighed-down feeling only gave way before the urgency she could feel from her Bond with Master Cal. She knew how much energy it took to send communications across a Bond from such a distance. It felt like he had been trying to get her attention for a while now and had only gotten more alarmed when he’d been unable to do so.

_How long was I in that cave?_

Iscah was glad for the distraction of reaching her ship because her thoughts were shying away from the pit like a nervous fathier before a race. It was easier to let her mind skip over the matter when she had what she suspected to be an emergency in front of her.

When she got to the cockpit, the communications light was blinking. With a shaking hand, Iscah pressed it.

“Iscah!” came the harried, relieved voice of Cal Kestis. “Thank the Force you’re okay.” He squinted at her, his expression absolutely ragged with concern. Iscah realized he was taking in her tear-stained face, her bone-deep exhaustion clear by her pinched expression. “ _Are_ you okay?”

“Yes, Master,” she responded, hating how thick her voice sounded. “What’s happened?”

Cal looked over his shoulder like someone was trying to get his attention, but he waved them off. He turned back to Iscah, and she felt herself sit up straighter when she caught sight of his flashing eyes. “Where were you? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for _hours_.”

“Sorry, Master,” she replied, feeling guilt twist in her stomach, “I got… caught up. In another lead.”

She didn’t want to tell him about the pit. She didn’t think she had the stomach to talk about it just yet. Maybe ever.

“It doesn’t matter,” Cal said with a desperation in his voice that surprised her. “Iscah, I need you to come back to Iulia _now_.”

“Master, I _can’t_. Veréne-”

“The Empire has found us, Iscah.”

Iscah’s stomach dropped.

_Oh, no..._

“Someone in Mads’ network gave him the intel,” he continued, and Iscah realized that the desperation she’d seen in his face had actually been _fear_ . “We should have a few days, but Iscah _I need you here_. If the Empire comes, if they send Inquisitors after us, I can’t protect the children on my own. Utuhnira and Xenon won’t be enough to help me keep them safe either. I need you to come home and help get everyone to safety, _please._ ”

Iscah’s hands were already flying over the dashboard, bringing Mads’ ship to life beneath her fingertips. She should’ve done a ship check, made sure she had enough supplies and fuel to get herself to Iulia safely.

 _Fuck safety_ , Iscah thought viciously.

“I’m on my way, Master Cal,” she said, glancing up and meeting the holo eyes of her Master. “ _I am coming_. Just hang on, okay?” She smiled grimly, trying to send confidence over their Bond. “Save some bucketheads for me if they get there first.”

“Don’t let them get here first,” he said, but the smile he returned hers with was grateful.

“Yes, Master,” she replied over the roaring hyperdrive. “May the Force be with you.”

Cal gave her another strained smile, this one distracted by something off to his left, and then he ended the communication.

Piloting her ship off of Logawa and into hyperspace, Iscah felt something fearful and ominous skittering across her consciousness. Ignoring it, she pushed everything away: her fear for her home and family, the still-present heaviness of her heart, her moments of weakness in the pit. 

All that mattered right now was getting to Iulia before the Empire did.

 _I’m sorry, Veréne_ , Iscah sent, forcing herself to ignore the gaping silence, _but you’re going to have to wait for me a little bit longer._

As she careened her ship towards her home, she finally placed the feeling that had been building inside of her, starting when she’d been locked in that illusion in the pit.

It felt like standing on the cliffs of Iulia just before a lightning storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains Force manipulation, minor injury, depression, anxiety, pining.


End file.
